'^ 


V?  .- 


YOUNGER 

AMERICAN    POETS 

1830-1890 


EDITED   BY 

DOUGLAS  SLADEN,  B.A.  OXON. 

B.A.,  LL.B.  MELBOURNE,  AUSTRALIA 

AUTHOR  OF  "AUSTRALIAN  LYRICS,"  "A  POETRY  OF  EXILES,"  ETC.,  ETC.,  AND  EDITOR 
OF  "AUSTRALIAN  POETS,"  "A  CENTURY  OF  AUSTRALIAN  SONG,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


WITH   AN   APPENDIX   OF 

YOUNGER    CANADIAN    POETS 

EDITED   BY 

GOODRIDGE  BLISS  ROBERTS 

OF  ST  JOHN,  N.B. 


THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

I  89  I 


{The  Rights  of  Translation  and  of  Reproduction  are  reserved.} 


DEDICATED   TO 

THE  CITIZENS  OF  BOSTON,— 

'    THE  CRADLE  OF   LITERATURE   IN   AMERICA, 
THE  GREAT  CITY, 

WHICH,  AS  IT  TOOK   THE  LEAD  IN  WAGING  WAR  WITH   ENGLAND 
A   HUNDRED  YEARS   AGO, 

NOW  TAKES   THE  LEAD   IN   WAGING  PEACE, — 
AS  A   HOMAGE  TO   ITS  GREATNESS 

AND  A  GRATEFUL  REMEMBRANCE  OF  THE  HOSPITALITY  RECEIVED 
AT  MY   FIRST   RESTING-PLACE   IN   AMERICA. 


TO  THE  AMERICAN  FALL  AT  NIAGARA. 

Niagara,  national  emblem  !  Cataract 

Born  of  the  maddened  rapids,  sweeping  down 
Direct,  resistless  from  the  abyss's  crown 

Into  the  deep,  fierce  pool  with  vast  impact 

Scarce  broken  by  the  giant  boulders,  stacked 

To  meet  thine  onslaught,  threatening  to  drown 
Each  tillaged  plain,  each  level-loving  town 

'  Twixt  thee  and  ocean.     Lo  !  the  type  exact ! 

America  Niagarized  the  world. 

Europe,  a  hundred  years  agone,  beheld 
An  avalanche,  like  pent-up  Erie,  hrirled 

Through  barriers,  to  which  the  rocks  of  eld 
Seemed  toy  things — leaping  into  godlike  space 
A  sign  and  wonder  to  the  human  race. 

DOUGLAS  SLADEN 


NIAGARA,  October  18,  18 


/  desire  to  crave  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  for 
typographical  errors,  the  book  having  had  the  dis 
advantage  of  passing  through  the  Press  while  I  was 
away  in  Japan,  without  the  proper  works  at  hand  for 
correcting  the  proofs. 

DOUGLAS  SLADEN. 


YOKOHAMA,  "jth  December  1889. 


CONTENTS. 


DEDICATION v 

DEDICATORY  SONNET vi 

To  THE  READER      .        .        .        ....        .        .        .    xxv 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE  (1830-1886)— 

Vicksburg 1 

Beauregard's  Appeal 3 

Beyond  the  Potomac       .......  4 

The  Rose  and  Thorn 6 

The  Red  Lily 6 

Ariel 7 

Pre-Existence          ........  8 

After  the  Tornado 9 

Tristram  of  the  Wood 9 

WILL.  WALLACE  HARNEY  (1831) — 

Adonais          .........       11 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  (1833) — 

Pan  in  Wall  Street 13 

Toujours  Amour 16 

"  The  Undiscovered  Country "  .         .         .         .17 

Song  from  a  Drama         .......       17 

The  Discoverer 18 

The  Death  of  Bryant      .         .         .         .         .  .20 

Provencal  Lovers    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .23 

The  Hand  of  Lincoln 25 

The  World  Well  Lost     .         .         ...         .         .         .26 

Liberty  Enlightening  the  World 27 

CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB  [John  Paul]  (1834) — 

Little  Mamma 29 

With  a  Nantucket  Shell          .         .         .         .         .         .32 

The  King  and  the  Pope .         .         .         .         .         .         .33 


CONTENTS. 


GEORGE  ARNOLD  (1834-1865)— 

Beer 34 

A  Sunset  Fantasie ........  35 

JOHN  JAMES  PIATT  (1835) — 

Awake  in  Darkness         .......  3/ 

The  Buried  Ring 37 

Apart 39 

The  Mower  in  Ohio 39 

The  Blackberry  Farm 42 

Conflagration 44 

The  New  House 45 

A  Song  of  Content 46 

Fires  in  Illinois 47 

WILLIAM  WINTER  (1836)— 

My  Queen 48 

Adelaide  Neilson 49 

DAVID  GRAY  (1836-1888)— 

To  J.  H.  (Colonel  John  Hay) 50 

Divided 51 

Sir  John  Franklin  and  his  Crew 51 

Rest 53 

Cross  of  Gold 53 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  (1836) — 

Palabras  Carinosas          .......  55 

Identity 56 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS  (1837) — 

Forlorn 56 

Thanksgiving          ........  61 

Through  the  Meadow 61 

Dead 62 

The  Poet's  Friends 63 

Avery 63 

HENRY  AMES  BLOOD  (1838) — 

Shakespeare 66 

Pro  Mortuis 68 

The  Two  Enchantments 69 

COLONEL  JOHN  HAY  (1838) — 

Jem  Bludso   .         .         .         .         .         .         -    •  .70 

How  it  Happened 71 

Regardant 73 


CONTENTS. 


FATHER  ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN  (1839-1886) — 

In  Memory  of  my  Brother      ......  74 

Sentinel  Songs 75 

The  Conquered  Banner 77 

C.  S.  A .         .79 

[FRANCIS]  BRET  HARTE  (1839)— 

Her  Letter 80 

Dickens  in  Camp   ........  83 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH  (1839) — 

The  Clocks  of  Kenilworth 84 

The  Florida  Ibis 88 

EOSSITER  JOHNSON  (1840) — 

Faith's  Surrender 90 

Lawrence       .........  92 

HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER  (1840-1890) — 

A  Trio  for  Twelfth  Night       ......  94 

Love's  Infinite  made  Finite  (Liber  Amoris)      ...  99 
The  Creed  of  Love  (Liber  Amoris)  .         .         .         .         .100 

The  Sense  of  Loss  (Liber  Amoris)  .....  100 

EGBERT  KELLY  WEEKS  (1840-1876)  — 

By  the  Light  of  the  Moon 101 

On  the  Beach 102 

The  Mist 102 

A  Rainy  Day 103 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL  (1841-1887)— 

Opportunity  .........  104 

Five  Lives     .........  105 

The  Fool's  Prayer 106 

JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE  (1841) — 

The  Errand 108 

Waiting  in  the  Rain       .         .         .         .         .         .         .109 

Song 110 

Who  Knows 110 

Labour  and  Life     ........  Ill 

The  Power  of  Beauty Ill 

CINCINNATI  HINER  MILLER  [Joaquin  Miller]  (1841) — 

The  Ship  in  the  Desert 113 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Great  River 117 

From  the  Rhyme  of  the  Great  River       ....  120 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Charity 120 

To  the"  Lion  of  Saint  Mark :.    122 

Pace  Implora          . 123 

Kit  Carson's  Ride  .         .         ...         .         .         .124 

CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON  (1842) — 

The  Children .,-     ,    129 

SIDNEY  LANIER  (1842-1881) — 

Sunrise — A  Hymn  of  the  Marshes    .         .         ...        -.  131 

The  Marshes  of  Glynn .137 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee 140 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master 142 

From "  The  Symphony ".         .         .         .         .        .        .  142 

The  Crystal      .        .        .        .        .        .        .  .  145 

DAVID  LAW  PROUDFIT  (1842) — 

At  Odds  with  Life \.        .        .    148 

CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS  [Yawcob  Strauss]  (1842) — 

Der  Oak  and  der  Vine 152 

Mine  Vamily 154 

He  gets  here  shust  der  same  !  .         .         .         .         .         .154 

Mine  Moder-in-Law         .         .         .         .         .         .         .156 

Der  Drummer 157 

"  Don'd  feel  too  Big  !" 158 

Der  Vater-Mill 159 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER  (1844) — 

Ode 161 

A  Woman's  Thought 163 

Reform     ..........     164 

Decoration  Day         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .     165 

"  There  is  Nothing  new  under  the  Sun  ".         .         .         .165 

The  Sower 166 

"  O  Silver  River  flowing  toward  the  Sea  "         .         .         .167 

Sheridan 168 

The  White  Tsar's  People 169 

Sunset  from  the  Train 171 

The  Master-Poets .        .172 

SONGS — 

The  Song  of  a  Heathen 173 

I  Love  her  Gentle  Forehead 173 

"  Beyond  the  Branches  of  the  Pine  "  .  .  .  .174 
"  The  Woods  that  bring  the  Sunset  near "  .  .  .  174 
"  Oh  Love  is  not  a  Summer  Mood "  .  .  .  175 

Song 175 

Only  Once 175 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS — 

"  My  Love  for  Thee  doth  March  like  Armed  Men  "      .176 

The  Dark  Room    .         .         . 176 

On  the  Life-Mask  of  Abraham  Lincoln         .         .         .177 
Love's  Jealousy    .         .         .         .          ...         .         .     178 

The  Celestial  Passion    .         .         .         .         .         .         .178 

The  Evening  Star 179 

The  Sonnet  .         . 179 

Keats .         .         .         .180 

Father  and  Child          .         ....         .         .180 

"Call  me  not  Dead" 181 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'EEILLY  (1844-1890)— 

Jacqueminots          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .181 

The  Celebes 182 

A  Savage 183 

Love's  Secret 183 

Distance         .........  184 

Uncle  Ned's  Tale 184 

Western  Australia 193 

Dying  in  Harness  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  194 

J.  H.  BONER  (1845)— 

"We  Walked  among  the  Whispering  Pines"  .         .         .     197 
The  Light'ood  Fire 198 

MAURICE  THOMPSON  (1844) — 

The  Death  of  the  White  Heron       .         .         .         .         .199 

Ceres 202 

Diana 203 

An  Exile 204 

WILL  CARLETON  (1845) — 

The  First  Settler's  Story         .'.".'.         .         .     209 

EDGAR  FAWCETT  (1847) — 

Imperfection .         .         ....         .         .         .     219 

The  Punishment     .          .          .      -    .          .          .          .          .     219 

The  Meeting  .         . 220 

To  an  Oriole 220 

The  Moon  in  the  City 221 

Decoration  Day      .         ...         .         .         .         .     221 

Fiat  Justitia 222 

Gold      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .223 

Still  Water    .         .         .......         .         .224 

Master  and  Slave   .         .         ,         ...         ,         ,         ,     225 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Sorceress 226 

A  Straggler 234 

Ivy I  235 

JAMES  JEFFREY  EOCHE  (1847)— 

Sir  Hugo's  Choice 236 

The  V-a-s-e 238 

Andromeda    .........  239 

Babylon 239 

WALTER  LEARNED  (1847) — 

On  the  Fly-Leaf  of  a  Book  of  Old  Plays          .         .         .240 

Marjorie's  Kisses    ........  241 

The  Prime  of  Life 242 

Eheu !  Fugaces 242 

HENRY  AUGUSTIN  BEERS  (1847)— 

Beaver  Pond  Meadows 243 

The  Rising  of  the  Curtain       ......  245 

Hugh  Latimer        ........  247 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY  (1848) — 

Waiting 248 

Our  Mother 248 

Great  is  To-Day 249 

Snowflakes     .........  250 

Spring  Song 250 

Loves  of  Leaves  and  Grasses 251 

Song  of  the  Gloaming     .......  251 

HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN  (1848) — 

The  Lost  Hellas 252 

Evolution 256 

CHARLES  DE  KAY  (1848)— 

Arcana  Sylvarum 258 

Invocation      .........  259 

Ulf  in  Ireland 260 

Surrender 263 

The  Tornado 264 

Serenade 266 

From  "Barnaval" 266 

EGBERT  BURNS  WILSON  (1850)— 

Life  and  Love  .........  269 

My  Lady  Sleeps 272 


CONTENTS.  xv 

PAGB 

EUGENE  FIELD  (1850)— 

Our  Two  Opinions    ..-.•.....  273 

Lullaby     .         .         .         .•        .- 274 

A  Dutch  Lullaby 275 

A  Norse  Lullaby 277 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON  WRIGHT  HOUGHTON  (1850) — 

Anniversary  Hymn 277 

The  Handsel  Ring 278 

The  Harp  (Legend  of  St  Olafs  Kirk]         .         .         .         .279 
The  Song  (Legend  of  St  Olafs  Kirk)         .         .         .         .279 

Gone  !  (Legend  of  St  Olafs  Kirk) 280 

Tapestries  (Legend  of  St  Olafs  Kirk)         .         .         .         .281 

ARLO  BATES  (1850)— 

To  My  Infant  Son    .         .,        .         .         .'.        .         .         .  281 

On  the  Road  to  Chorrera           ......  284 

A  Shadow  Boat 284 

Sonnets  in  Shadow 285 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP  (1851) — 

Gettysburg,  a  Battle  Ode          ......  287 

The  Sunshine  of  Thine  Eyes 288 

The  Phoebe-Bird       . 288 

Keenan's  Charge       ...         .         .         .         .         .         .  289 

IRWIN  EUSSELL  (1853-1879)— 

From  "  Christinas  Night  in  the  Quarters  "...  291 

Nebuchadnezzar        ........  293 

Her  Conquest   . 295 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  EILET  (1853)— 

The  South  Wind  and  the  Sun 295 

Knee-Deep  in  June  ,.....,..  300 

When  She  Comes  Home 303 

When  Bessie  Died 303 

The  King          .         .         . 304 

Jim 306 

SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK  (1854)— 

Dollie 308 

A  Knot  of  Blue 309 

An  Afterthought .309 

The  Sailor's  Sweetheart   .         .         .         ..         ..310 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


H.  C.  BUNNER  (1855)— 

The  Way  to  Arcady 
The  Appeal  to  Harold 

JAMES  BERRY  BENSEL  (1856-1886) — 
My  Sailor 

WILLIAM  PRESCOTT  FOSTER  (1856) — 

The  Wind  and  the  Stars  and  the  Sea 
The  Sea's  Voice  .... 
The  Silence  of  the  Hills  . 

CHARLES  LOTIN  HILDRETH  (1856) — 

Ghosts      . 

Love 

The  Tocsin 

Song— The  Vigil      . 

The  Burden  of  Time 

JAMES  BENJAMIN  KENYON  (1858) — 

When  Clover  Blooms        .        ... 

Quatrain  .         .         .         .        . 

Syrinx      ...... 

The  Tynan's  Memory       .•        .        . 

JOHN  ELIOT  BOWEN  (1858) — 

To  Wilding,  my  Polo-Pony  .  , 
The  Man  who  Rode  to  Conemaugh 

CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS  (1858) — 
The  Dead  Nymph    .... 

RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON  (1859) — 

The  City 

Apprisals          ..... 

Song  of  the  Sea         .         .        .  "      , 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN  (1860) — 

Dawn  and  Dusk 

On  Some  Buttercups 

Bacchus    . 

A  Madrigal 

A  Betrothal      . 

A  Persian  Dancing  Girl 


311 
314 


315 


316 
317 
318 


319 
321 
321 
322 
322 


324 
325 
325 
326 


328 
329 


331 


335 
336 
336 


.  337 

.  339 

.  339 

.  340 

.  341 

,  341 

CONTENTS..*,  ;.xvii 

PAGE 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD  (I860)— -                                •    . ., . .  .  ,  y- 

As  I  Came  Down  from  Lebanon     .         .         .         ,  342 

The  Hunter   .         .         .         .'.'."...  343 

By  the  Turret  Stair        .         .       "  .       "  ..      *  .    '     .  .     345 

On  a  Bust  of  Antinous  .          .          .          .    •      ;  . '   347 

Sidney  Godolphin 348 

LANGDON  ELWYN  MITCHELL  [John. Philip  Varley]  (1862-)— 
The  Way-Side  Virgin     .         .         .         ...         .     349 

Song      .         .         .         .       -  .       - .       .  .       ..;•-.         .350 

Song      •         •• .851 

MADISON  J.  CAWEIN  (1865) — 

Carmen  .         .         .          .  .          .         .     351 

The  Heron     . 353 

HENRY  TYRRELL  (I860)— 

The  Debutante       .         .                   .         .-''-'*.         .         . '    353 
Wylls .-.'..     354 

DANIEL  L.  DAWSON — 

The  Seeker  in  the  Marshes     .       - .       . .       . .         .         .     354 

EICHARD  HOVEY  (1864)  — 

Beethoven's  Third  Symphony       ...         .  .     356 

ARTHUR  MACY — 

My  Masterpiece 357 

OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS — 

Beaten 359 

MAURICE  EGAN— 

Of  Flowers       .         .  ....-.-.         .  360 

The  Old  Violin     .  .         .         .         .         .         .         !  860 

Theocritius        .         .  . 361 

Maurice  De  Guerin  . •  361 

JAMES  E.  NESMITH — 

Monadnoc         .         .         .         .         .     •    .         .         .         .     362 

LOUISE  MAY  ALCOTT  (1832) — 

Transfiguration       .          .          .          •        .         .     374 

ANNE  EEEVE  ALDRICH — 

Color  Song     .         . 375 

A  Song  of  Life 376 

The  Wish       .         .         .         .      '.'."..         .376 
b 


CONTENTS. 


CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES  (1838-1889)— 

Springs  ...... 

At  Tappan     

Last  Days  of  Byron 

MAT  ELIZABETH  BLAKE  (1840) — 

A  Dead  Summer    .... 

Going  and  Coming 

Heartsick !  ... 


HELEN  GRAY  CONE  (1859)- 

The  Accolade 

A  Song  of  Failure 

The  Dandelions 

Emelie  . 

Elsinore 

To-Day. 


INA  D.  COOLBRITH — 

The  Poet       .         .         .         ... 

DANSKE  CAROLINA  DANDRIDGE  (1858) — 

Desire    .         .         .         .         .         .  . 

Pegasus 

A  Dainty  Fop 

The  Dead  Moon 

MARGARET[TA  WADE]  DELANO  (1857) — 

Affaire  D' Amour 

Summer         .  . 

Life 

"  While  Shepherds  Watched  their  Flocks  by  Night ' 

LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY  (1861) — 
Tarpeia  .... 
A  Passing  Song 
The  Wild  Ride       . 
The  Light  of  the  House 
After  the  Storm 
The  Poet 

HELEN  JACKSON  [H.  H.]  (1831)— 

A  Christmas  Symphony  . 

At  Last 

When  the  Tide  comes  in 


377 
378 
378 


380 
381 
383 


384 
389 
389 
390 
392 
394 


394 


395 
397 

398 
399 


401 
402 
402 
403 


404 
407 
407 
408 
409 
409 


410 
413 
415 


CONTENTS.                              .  xix 

PAGE 

When  the  Baby  died 416 

Land 417 

When  the  Kings  come    .         .         .         .         .         .         .418 

Mordecai 418 

Christmas  Night  in  Saint  Peter's    .         . .        .         .         .419 

SONNETS — 

Bon  Voyage 420 

Sealed  Orders 421 

Avalanches          ........  421 

Cheyenne  Mountain     .......  421 

Danger 422 

The  Fir- Tree  and  the  Brook 422 

Refrain 424 

My  Tenants 425 

Dedication 426 

May 427 

The  Poet's  Forge 427 

Vanity  of  Vanities 428 

Habeas  Corpus        ........  429 

A  Last  "Prayer 430 

ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP  (1851) — 

Francie  ..........  431 

Dorothy 432 

Looking  Backward          .         .         .         .         .         .         .432 

The  Out-Going  Race 433 

EMMA  LAZARUS  (1849-1887)— 

The  Crowing  of  the  Red  Cock 434 

The  Banner  of  the  Jew  .......  435 

A  Masque  of  Venice       .......  436 

JULIE  MATHILDE  LIPPMANN  (1864) — 

A  Song  of  the  Road 438 

Time 439 

LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON — 

A  Painted  Fan 440 

The  House  of  Death .441 

How  Long 442 

We  Lay  us  Down  to  Sleep      ......  442 

"  If  there  were  Dreams  to  Sell  ".....  443 

When  Day  was  Done      .......  444 

At  End 445 

Heart !  Sad  Heart :  A  Rondel 445 

Wife  to  Husband    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .445 

The  Venus  of  Burne  Jones      .                  ....  446 


CONTENTS. 


The  Last  Good-Bye        .         .         .         •         •         •         .447 
After  Death  .         .         .         .         •         •  .447 

The  Cup  of  Death •         •     448 

HicJacet       .  ' 

A  Cry •         •         •         -449 

NORA  PERRY — 

After  the  Ball         .         .         .'..*.  -  .449 

Tying  her  Bonnet  tinder  her  Chin  .        '.    ,    .  •  .451 

The  Romance  of  a  Rose           .         .         .  .  •  .453 

Abraham  Lincoln's  Christmas  Gift .        '.  .   . ".  .  .     455 

Riding  Down          .         .        •'.'.'.'.  .  .456 

Cressid  .         .         ,         .         ."       .        \        *.  '.  .     457 

ELIZABETH  STTJART  PHELPS  WARD  (1844)—- 

AU  the  Rivers .         .         ...-.-.         .         •         .459 
On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs    .         .       • .        .      •  .         •         •     46C 
Afterward         .         .         •         •      ••         •       '• 
Galatea    .       ..        .-..•.-,.        •        .461 

SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT  (1836)— 

There  was  a  Rose     .        .        .*.".'.        .        .  463 
In  Doubt.         ..'...'.'.         -         .464 

Broken  Promise        .'.'." 464 

The  Watch  of  a  Swan    '  .         .      ' 464 

The  Witch  in  the  Glass    .         .    ,    .         .                  .         •  465 

Comfort  through  a  Window 465 

Making  Peace  . 466 

MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON— 

A  Blemished  Offering       .......  467 

A  Belle  of  Praeneste 468 

Persephone       .         .         .         .         •         ....         .  470 

The  First  Thanksgiving  Day 471 

EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR — 

Easter  Morning 472 

El  Madhi  to  the  Tribes  of  the  Soudan       .         .         .         .476 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge 478 

Heroes 480 

AMELIE  RIVES  (1863) — 

Grief  and  Faith         .         .         .         .481 

A  Sonnet .  . 483 


CONTENTS.  xxi 

PAGE 

HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD  (1835) — 

Magdalen       .         .         . 484 

Agatha's  Song        .         .         .         .  .         .         .     485 

The  Lonely  Grave •    .  .486 

Oak  Hill •    .     '    .         .488 

An  Old  Song 488 

Goldsmith's  Whistle       .         .         .         .         .      •    .         .489 

CELIA  THAXTER  (1836)— 

The  Only  Foe •    .         .         .494 

Song 495 

A  Tryst •    .         .         .         .495 

Slumber  Song 498 

Schumann's  Sonata  in  A  Minor       .....     498 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS  (1854) — 

The  Quiet  Pilgrim 500 

Exiles 501 

Frost 501 

MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND  (1836) — 

Down  the  Bayou    ........     502 

How  Much  do  you  Love  Me 505 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX — 

Solitude 506 

Answered       .........  507 

Midsummer   .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  508 

The  Lost  Garden 509 

The  Story 511 

Advice  ..........  511 

My  Ships .         .         .512 

Will 513 

Winter  Rain 514 

Life 514 


WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL  (I860)— 

Keziah 519 

A  Lake  Memory    .         .         .         .  •       .         .         .         .  521 

Three  Things 521 

Manitou          .         .         ...         .         .         .         .  522 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON — 

By  the  Fountain    .         .....         .         .  523 

TheoWay  of  the  World  ...          .         .          .          .525 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Shelley  
True  Love  and  Tried      . 

.     526 
.     527 

What  Matters  It  ?  

.     528 

Our  Poets       

.     ;>29 

Death    

.     530 
532 

Relics    

.     534 

BLISS  CARMAN  (1861)  — 
Stir        

.     535 

Death  in  April        
A  Windflower         ..... 

.     535 
.     542 

A.  H.  CHANDLER — 

The  Death-Song  of  Chi-wee-moo     .....  542 

ISABELLA  VALANCY  CRAWFORD — 

The  Cauoe 543 

HEREWARD  K.  COCKIN — 

Epitaph  on  an  Early  Settler    ......  546 

JOHN  HUNTER  DUVAR  (1830) — 

From  Enamorado 548 

Song  from  Euamorado .  549 

Twilight  Song  (from  De  Roberval)  .         .         .         .         .  549 

Brown  of  England's  Lay         ......  550 

THE  REV.  ARTHUR  WENTWORTH  HAMILTON  EATON — 

L'Ordre  de  Bon  Temps  .......  551 

The  Legend  of  Glooscap 552 

The  Resettlement  of  Acadia  ......  554 

At  Grandmother's .          .          .          .          .          .         .          .557 

The  Voyage  of  Sleep 559 

The  Whaling  Town 560 

Flood  Tide 561 

Love-Letters .........  561 

Sometime 562 

Louis  FRECHETTE — 

"Saint-Malo" 563 

"  Le  Drapeau  Anglais " .         .         .         .         .         .         .  564 

"  La  Decouverte  du  Mississippi "     .         .         .         .         .  566 

JAMES  HANNAY — 

A  Ballad  of  Port  Royal 570 

SOPHIE  M.  HENSLEY — 

Triumph 572 

There  is  no  God                                   572 


CONTENTS.  xxiii 

PAGE 

MATTHEW  RICHEY  KNIGHT — 

Dream  and  Deed 573 

A  Song  of  Failure  .'.'.'.'..'.         .  573 

ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN  (1861) — 

Heat .575 

Between  the  Rapids .577 

One  Day 579 

The  Weaver 579 

Comfort          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .580 

Outlook '      .         .581 

Knowledge     .         .         .         .         .         .         ...  581 

The  Railway  Station       .....;.  582 

WILLIAM  Douw  LIGHTHALL— 

National  Hymn 582 

Canada  not  Last 583 

Homer      ..........  585 

ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART — 

Guilt  in  Solitude       .         .         .         .         .         .         .'...,  586 

Frost-Work 589 

BURTON  W.  LOCKHART — 

Song .  589 

Life's  Noblest  Heights 590 

AGNES  MAULE  MACHAR — 

Drifting  among  the  Thousand  Islands      ....  590 

The  Whip-poor-will 591 

Two  Visions 592 

In  the  Studio 593 

WILLIAM  M'LENNAN — 

"The  Pines" — Mount  Royal 595 

CHARLES  MAIR  (1840) — 

From  "  The  Tecumseh  " 595 

MARY  MORGAN  [Gowan  Lea] — 

"In  Apprehension,  so  Like  a  God  !  "       .         .         .         .  598 

CHARLES  PELHAM  MULVANEY  (1835) — 

From  Far 599 

South  Africa  Remembered  at  Niagara,  Canada         .         .  600 

Some  One  Cornea      .         *..."•         •         .         .         •         .  600 


CONTENTS. 


JOHN  READE  (1837)— 

.    Antigdne  ...         .         .                           .         .  .     601 

British  Canada  to  Mr  Louis  H.  Frechette        .         .  .602 

Pictures  of  Memory '  .     602 

Dominion  Day .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .     605 

In  my  Heart     .         ....         ,•'.'.  .     607 

PROFESSOR  CHARLES  GEORGE  DOUGLAS  ROBERTS— 

Collect  for  Dominion  Day         .         ...         .  .     608 

Canada     . '  .    '     .     609 

Khartoum         .         .         .         .    '     .         .         .         .  .610 

The  Pipes  of  Pan      .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .611 

The  Isles:  An  O3e  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .613 

Salt 614 

Severance.         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .     615 

Actseon     .        .        .        .        .        . '               .        .  .     615 

ELIZABETH  GOSTUYCKE  ROBERTS — 

A  Secret  Song .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .621 

THE  REV.  F.  G.  SCOTT  (1861)— 


Time 

.     622 

Knowledge        ...... 

.     622 

British  War  Song      

.     624 

Estrangement  

...         .624 

PHILLIPS  STEWART  (1863)  — 

.     625 

Alone        .        .        .        .        . 

.626 

At  Sea      

.     627 

BARRY  STRATON  — 

The  Robin's  Madrigal       .... 
From  The  Building  of  the  Bridge     . 

.        .         .627 
.        .628 

ARTHUR  WEIR  (1864)— 

L'Ordre  de  Bon  Temps     . 
At  Rainbow  Lake     .         . 

.     629 
.     631 

In  Absence       ...:.. 

.     632 

APPENDIX  I. — 

A  Study  of  Sidney  Lanier  by  Mrs  Laurence  Turnbull      .     635 

APPENDIX  II. — 

President  Gates  on  Sidney  Lanier 645 


TO  THE  READER.* 


THE  literary  men  of  England  and  the  United  States 
are  one  people,  with  the  same  tastes  and  a  reciprocal 
feeling  of  affection.  No  English  author  can  be  in 
sensible  to  the  efforts  of  American  authors  and  the 
leading  American  publishing  houses  to  persuade 
their  Government  to  join  the  international  copy 
right  league,  and  there  is  no  more  appreciative 
audience  than  the  American. 

With  the  works  of  English  authors,  rising  as 
well  as  risen,  our  cousins  are  laudably  familiar. 
But  the  compliment  has  not  been  returned,  and 
this  book  is  an  attempt  to  make  English  readers 
know  something  more  of  the  bright  young  poets 
whose  names  they  see  in  the  great  international 
magazines — The  Century  and  Harper's. 

I  have  confined  myself  to  writing  of  the  younger 
poets,  for  two  reasons.  The  British  Public  is  as 
conversant  as  it  is  ever  likely  to  be  with  the  poems 
of  Longfellow,  Bryant,  Poe,  Emerson,  Whittier, 
Holmes,  and  Lowell,  and  it  would  therefore  have 
been  a  great  pity  to  use  up  the  large  amount  of 
space  which  must  have  been  allotted  to  them  to 
preserve  proportion,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
would  have  been  very  impertinent  to  have  in 
cluded  them  without  an  exhaustive  study  of  their 
works,  in  order  to  contribute  something  fresh  about 

*  This  introduction  is  an  expansion  of  my  two  articles  which 
appeared  in  the  New  York  Independent  of  June  12th  and  June  19th, 
1890. 


xxvi  TO  THE  READER. 

them — not   to   mention  the  dog-in-the-mangering 
about  copyrights. 

Nor  has  there,  as  far  as  I  know,  been  any  at 
tempt  made  in  England  to  put  before  the  Public 
a  work  dealing  only  with  the  contemporary  part 
of  American  poetry. 

Before  going  further,  it  would  perhaps  be  as 
well  to  define  "Younger  American  Poets."  The 
ante-bellum  poets,  those  whose  fame  was  already 
secure  before  the  War,  naturally  did  not  fall  into 
this  limitation.  But  the  War  itself  seemed  hardly 
a  satisfactory  line  of  demarcation.  However, 
while  considering  this  question,  I  happened  to 
notice  that  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  whom  I  have 
accordingly  made  the  patriarch  of  this  work,  was 
born  on  the  1st  of  January  1830.  And  as  the 
book  was  going  to  press  at  the  end  of  1889,  this 
gave  me  an  exact  period  of  sixty  years. 

As  it  seemed,  also,  that  no  collection  of  "  Younger 
American  Poets  "  would  be  complete  without  those 
who  were  judged  in  their  lifetime  among  the  most 
likely  to  furnish  successors  to  the  Longfellow 
group — "  H.  H.,"  Sidney  Lanier,  Emma  Lazarus, 
Edward  Rowland  Sill,  and  the  poets  of  the  South, 
Paul  Hayne  and  Father  Ryan,  I  decided  to  include 
all  born  within  the  period,  living  or  dead. 

It  would  be  invidious,  while  all  the  authors 
included  are  alive,  or  only  recently  dead,  to  make 
comparisons  of  merit,  and  I  shall  confine  myself 
to  remarking  on  the  features  which  have  struck 
me  most  in  some  of  the  more  noticeable  of  them. 

It  is  natural  to  mention  first  the  name  of  Sidney 
Lanier,  for  his  personality,  if  it  be  true  that  for 
a  man  to  be  a  great  poet  he  must  also  be  a  great 
personality. 

In  Lanier,  the  beautiful  character,  the  high,  un- 


TO  THE  READER.  xxvii 

relaxed  purpose  shine  out.  In  his  work  the  con 
scientious  workman  and  the  artist  revelling  in  the 
exercise  of  his  art  are  never  lost.  Indeed  some 
times,  as  in  that  great  poem  of  "  Sunrise,"  written 
under  the  same  sad  circumstances  as  Raphael's 
"  Transfiguration  "  was  painted,  he  steps  from  con 
scientious  to  conscious,  artistic  to  artificial. 

But  his  contribution  to  American  poetry,  and 
indeed  to  all  poetry,  was  great.  For  he  asked 
himself  what  was  the  true  Ars  Poetica,  and  he 
endeavoured  to  write  in  accordance  with  the 
answer  evolved.  He  seems  to  me  parallel  to 
Dante  Rossetti.  Each  cherished  not  only  poetry, 
but  a  sister  art.  And  as  Rossetti's  poems  betray 
the  painter,  Lanier's  betray  the  musician.  Each 
had  a  pathetic  loftiness  of  purpose.  Each  had 
original  ideas  as  to  form.  Each  felt  the  hand  of 
death.  Each  had  a  singularly  ennobling  and  vivi 
fying  effect  on  his  fellows.  Each  was  the  founder 
of  a  school,  some  of  whom  anatomise,  and  some  of 
whom  imitate  his  art. 

Lanier's  poetry  has  a  real  value,  because  it  is 
beautiful,  it  is  original,  and  it  has  a  purpose.  No 
one  can  read  "The  Master  and  the  Trees,"  and 
"  The  Marshes  of  Glynn,"  without  feeling  that  he 
is  face  to  face  with  a  real  new  poet.  And  no  one 
can  read  his  volume  through  without  feeling  that 
a  pure,  high  soul  has  unfolded  its  aspirations  to 
him. 

Lanier  differs  from  the  other  dead  poets  in 
cluded  in  this  book  in  that  he  was  not  only  a  poet 
but  the  founder  of  a  school  of  poetry.  To  give 
the  British  reader  an  idea  of  the  teaching  he 
bequeathed  to  his  school,  I  have  added  a  couple 
of  appendices,  one  summarised  from  the  able 
memoir  by  President  Merrill  E.  Gates,  of  Rutger's 


xxviii  TO  THE  READER. 

College,  the  other,  by  Mrs  Laurence  Turnbull,  of 
Baltimore,  giving  the  cult  of  the  Lanierophant. 

From  Lanier  it  is  natural  to  pass  to  Helen  Hunt, 
born  Helen  Fiske,  and  by  a  second  marriage  Helen 
Jackson. 

Nature  was  bountiful  to  her.  She  was  what  is 
called  a  natural  poet,  human  in  sympathies,  and 
with  a  fine  lyric  touch.  I  have  noticed,  in  reading 
the  hundreds  of  books  which  I  have  had  to  examine 
for  this  work,  that  a  larger  percentage  of  women 
writers  than  men  have  the  lyric  quality.  I  attribute 
this  to  woman's  not  writing  unless  she  has  some 
natural  turn  for  it,  whereas  a  man's  education  shows 
him  the  mechanism  of  writing  poetry,  the  mere 
moves  on  the  chess-board,  and  he  finds  it  an  agree 
able  exercise  to  express  his  thoughts  in  this  form, 
and  more  particularly  in  England,  where  every 
scholar  has  learned  to  write  Latin  and  Greek  verse, 
and  is,  consequently,  well  acquainted  with  prosody, 
though  Americans  must  rival  them  in  productive 
ness,  if  one  can  trust  the  witticism  of  the  editor  of 
Harper's  Magazine,  who  once  remarked  to  me: 
"  Every  night  at  nine  o'clock  I  take  out  my  watch 
and  say  to  myself,  there  are  at  this  minute  a  hundred 
thousand  people  on  this  continent  writing  poetry, 
and  most  of  them  will  send  their  poems  to  me." 

To  instance  what  I  have  said  about  women,  I 
could  quote  a  long  list  of  Americans,  such  as  Helen 
Hunt,  Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  Nora  Perry, 
Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  Edna  Dean  Proctor, 
Edith  Thomas,  Helen  Gray  Cone,  Margaret  Deland, 
Danske  Dandridge,  and  Louise  Imogen  Guiney. 

But  to  return  to  "  H.  H.,"  the  broad  human  heart 
shows^itself  from  one  end  of  her  writing  to  the 
other.  She  is  essentially  human,  and  she  has 
eminently  the  faculty  of  creating  an  interest,  for 


TO   THE  READER.  xxix 

she  chooses  bright,  picturesque  metres,  and  uses 
picturesque  expressions. 

It  was  said  of  Longfellow  that  no  one  will  deny 
that  the  world  is  better  for  his  having  been  born. 
This  is  true  also  of  "  H.  H."  She  was  a  sort  of 
feminine  Longfellow,  inferior  to  him,  as  one  would 
expect  a  woman  to  be,  in  scholarship  and  learning, 
— like  him  in  striking  the  keynote  of  home.  This  is 
shown,  for  example,  in  her  sonnets,  such  as  "  Outward 
Bound  " — structurally  imperfect,  but  noble  poems. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne  and  Father  Abram  John 
Ryan,  the  dead  Southern  poets,  were  both  of  them, 
at  their  best,  war  poets.  But  Hayne's  fame  rests 
on  his  poems  generally,  and  Ryan's  on  his  battle- 
pieces,  such  as  his  world-renowned  "  The  Conquered 
Banner." 

Seldom  has  a  poet  been  so  identified  with  a  cause 
as  this  priest-Tyrtseus. 

In  his  poems  one  sees  the  whole  terrible  drama, 
founded  on  the  brave  old  theme  of  Cavalier  and 
Roundhead,  acted  afresh — the  grim,  old  story  of 
high  hopes  shattered,  high  blood  poured  out  like 
water,  romance  and  chivalry  subjected  to  reality. 
Ryan  has  created  a  monument  more  beautiful  and 
more  enduring  than  marble  over  the  grave  of  the 
gallant  but  ill-fated  Gray. 

The  "  Conquered  Banner,"  "  Sentinel  Songs," 
and  the  lines  on  his  brother,  are  among  the  finest 
war  poems  in  our  language. 

Hayne,  too,  had  his  tongue  tipped  with  fire  when 
he  sang  the  high  hopes  of  valour  to  the  Southern 
cavaliers  in  such  poems  as  "  Beyond  the  Potomac  " 
and  "  Vicksburg."  His  story  is  a  tragical  one,  with 
its  loss  of  the  beautiful  ancestral  home  at  Charles 
ton,  and  the  long  years  of  reduced  circumstances 
in  Georgia. 


xxx  TO  THE  READER. 

Hayne's  poems  are  not  all  of  equal  interest,  but 
every  now  and  then  one  comes  upon  something 
very  striking.  Where  he  felt  strongly  he  had  stir 
ring  eloquence ;  what  he  knew  familiarly  he  could 
paint  vividly. 

Among  the  living  younger  poets,  the  first  to  con 
sider  is,  of  course,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  their 
patriarch,  with  a  single  minor  exception,  and  dis 
tinguished  not  only  as  a  poet  but  as  one  of  the  first 
critics  of  the  day.  His  great  work  on  the  Victorian 
Poets  is  in  its  fifteenth  edition,  and  is  considered 
the  best  yet  written  on  contemporary  English  poets. 
And  some  of  his  poems,  like  "  Pan  in  Wall  Street," 
and  "  How  Old  Brown  took  Harper's  Ferry,"  are 
known  to  every  man  and  woman  who  reads  in  the 
United  States.  The  born-Americans  who  don't 
read  are  a  scarcely  appreciable  portion.  His  noble 
"Undiscovered  Country"  is  worthy  of  the  pen 
which  wrote — 

"Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  their  dust," 

and  his  pathetic  "  The  Discoverer  "  and  "  Proven9al 
Lovers,"  the  latter  one  of  the  best  things  of  its  kind 
in  English,  are  familiar  to  all  scholars.  A  strange, 
picturesque  career,  a  fascinating  personality,  is 
Stedman's.  That  his  battle-pieces  are  so  full  of  fire 
is  no  wonder,  for  he  was  a  war  correspondent  in 
the  great  Civil  War.  After  this,  to  use  his  own 
expression,  he  saw  how  fools  make  money,  and  made 
a  great  fortune,  becoming  one  of  the  best-known 
figures  on  Wall  Street  as  a  broker  and  banker. 
Then,  by  no  fault  of  his  own,  but  by  one  in  whom 
he  placed  implicit  confidence,  the  whole  was  swept 
away,  and  he  had  to  begin  life  again.  Now  his 
muse  sings  too  seldom,  for  his  energies  have  been 


TO  THE  READER.  xxxi 

taken  up  with  editing  the  whole  corpus  of  American 
writings  —  the  great  encyclopaedic  Library  of 
American  Literature,  published  by  Mark  Twain's 
firm,  Charles  L.  Webster  &  Co.,  the  most  stupend 
ous  thing  of  the  kind  yet  attempted. 

America  can  ill  spare  such  a  poet  for  the  editorial 
mill.  It  is  cruel  that  he  should  not  have  the  leisure 
to  be  writing  lyrics  and  ballads  to  form  part  of  the 
household  words  of  his  country.  What  makes 
Stedman  such  a  fine  critic  is  the  unusual  combination 
of  the  generous,  enthusiastic,  poetical  heart  with  a 
relentlessly  clear  and  judicial  intellect.  His  judg 
ment  detects  every  flaw  in  taste  or  workmanship, 
but  his  generosity  makes  it  impossible  for  him  to 
thrust  a  poisoned  dagger  where  he  finds  these  holes 
in  the  armour  of  his  brother  poets.  For  to  Stedman 
his  brother  poets  are  brothers.  It  is  delightful  to 
know  him,  to  mark  what  an  eager,  enthusiastic, 
poetical  spirit  burns  in  that  spare  body,  what  a 
keen  intellect  is  revealed  in  that  bright,  intellectual 
face,  with  its  magnificent  crown  of  silver  hair.  If 
he  had  but  the  leisure,  no  one  could  have  a  better 
chance  of  succeeding  Whittier  as  the  poet  of  the 
American  people.  For  Stedman  is  essentially  in 
touch  with  his  people — an  American  of  the  best 
kind,  cosmopolitan  in  his  sympathies,  patriotic  in 
his  sentiments.  He  is  prowl  of  America,  proud  of 
being  an  American,  satisfied  with  the  people  of 
America.  But  he  feels  that  Europe  is  the  comple 
ment  of  America — that  America  is  an  outline 
sketch,  which  wants  the  light  and  shade  of  Europe 
added  to  make  it  a  complete  picture. 

Owing  to  the  copyright  arrangements,  Bret  Harte, 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  and  William  Winter  are 
represented  by  only  a  couple  of  short  poems  each, 
so  to  discuss  them  would  be  like  a  sermon  without 


xxxii  TO  THE  READER. 

a  text.  Anyhow,  Harte  and  Winter  are  known 
as  well  on  one  side  of  the  Atlantic  as  the  other. 
Aldrich  has  achieved  something  very  like  perfec 
tion  within  the  limitations,  which  he  would  seem 
deliberately  to  have  laid  down  for  himself — except 
in  Wyndham  Towers. 

Edgar  Fawcett  is  a  master  of  irony,  has  an 
extraordinary  command  of  metre  and  rhyme,  is 
picturesque  in  his  wording,  and  strong  in  his 
situations.  His  poems  are  full  of  character.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  more  than  mention  here 
that  he  is  one  of  the  most  successful  novelists 
of  the  day. 

Among  all  the  poetry  I  have  read  for  my  books 
I  have  liked  the  flavour  of  none  better  than 
Richard  Watson  Gilder's.  It  is  ripe  wine,  dis 
tinguished  alike  by  mellowness  and  bouquet. 
Gilder's  poetry  is  like  Longfellow's — it  soothes 
one  and  makes  one  feel  better.  I  remember 
Russell  Sullivan  saying  to  me  that  he  always  reads 
a  few  pages  of  Longfellow  before  sitting  down 
to  dinner,  to  put  him  in  a  comfortable  frame  of 
mind  for  his  meal.  The  mention  of  their  names 
together  recalls  my  impression  that,  since  the 
death  of  Longfellow,  Gilder  has  been  unexcelled 
among  American  writers  of  the  sonnet.  Gilder's 
poems  are  instinct  with  the  beautiful  disposition 
and  delicate  taste  which  endears  him  personally. 
Delicacy  is  their  quality,  or  perhaps  I  should  say 
exquisiteness,  so  as  not  to  imply  the  unintended 
sense  of  fragility. 

As  will  be  seen  from  the  poems  quoted  in  this 
book,  Gilder  is  among  the  most  scholarly  of  younger 
American  poets.  Though  liberal  to  those  of  others, 
he  has  strong  opinions  of  his  own,  expressed  in 
verse  terse,  picturesque,  and  musical,  eloquent 


TO   THE  READER.  xxxiii 

above  all  because  so  obviously  the  outcome  of 
the  heart,  not  of  effort. 

The  name  I  associate  most  closely  with  Gilder's 
is  Maurice  Thompson. 

In  his  poems,  too,  delicate  grace,  delicate  taste 
are  conspicuous,  and  he  has  fields  of  his  own — 
archery  and  sport  in  the  South.  In  the  course  of 
this  work  I  have  read  no  other  poem  like  "The 
Death  of  the  White  Heron."  It  has  the  subtle 
sympathy  with  Nature  remarkable  in  those  prose 
poets  John  Burroughs  and  Richard  Jefferies, 
while  its  poetical  form  is  exquisite ;  and  "  In  Exile," 
on  his  favourite  theme  of  bowcraft,  is  almost 
equally  delightful.  He  has  also  a  dainty  classical 
vein  of  his  own. 

Since  "I  began  this  selection,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly's 
eager  spirit  has  at  last  found  rest.  He  was  a 
natural  balladist,  with  the  gifts  and  the  faults  of 
his  countrymen,  often  eloquent,  musical,  pathetic  to 
a  marked  degree,  but  often  also  spoiling  his  poems 
by  unpruned  luxuriance  or  the  intrusion  of  platform 
platitudes.  But  O'Reilly,  in  these  very  poems,  had 
one  great  point  in  his  favour,  that  they  were  the  out 
come  of  intense  if  not  always  very  poetical  feeling. 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  is  chiefly  known  as  a 
dialect  poet,  but  personally  I  prefer,  as  a  rule, 
such  of  his  poems  as  are  not  in  dialect,  such,  for 
instance,  as  "  The  South  Wind  and  the  Sun."  In 
these,  I  think,  he  stands  among  the  foremost  of  the 
younger  men.  Riley  may  always  be  "  innocent  of 
the  great  offence,"  as  he  undoubtedly  is  in  "  Knee- 
deep  in  June,"  but  I  am  haunted  by  a  suspicion  that 
most  poets  put  poems  into  dialect  when  they  are 
hopelessly  unpoetic  in  the  English  of  Tennyson. 

The  palm  of  popularity,  among  the  dialect  poets, 
falls  to  Will  Carleton,  author  of  Farm  Ballads, 


xxxiv  TO  THE  READER. 

Farm  Festivals,  etc.  Probably  none  of  the 
younger  poets  has  such  a  hold  upon  the  affections 
of  the  sixty  millions.  And  not  without  reason, 
for  Carleton  is  in  thorough  sympathy  with  the 
unadulterated  American,  distinctly  has  something 
to  say,  and  says  it  with  no  small  degree  of  mother- 
wit  and  pathos. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  for  somewhat  similar 
reasons,  has  a  large  audience  of  a  somewhat  similar 
character. 

Humorous  poets  should  perhaps  be  mentioned 
here,  as  most  dialect  poets  deal  with  humorous 
subjects. 

I  have  noticed  that  while  the  Americans  are  as 
a  nation  born  humorists,  they  have  comparatively 
few  high-class  humorous  writers.  Mark  Twain 
is  more  American  than  Frank  Stockton ;  the 
cartoons  in  the  comic  papers  more  racy  of  the 
soil  than  their  delicious  little  society  vignettes. 

Bret  Harte  and  Colonel  John  Hay,  of  course, 
stand  at  the  head  of  the  younger  poets  in  repu 
tation  as  humorists,  though  neither  of  them  has 
the  spirit  of  mirth  like  poor  Irwin  Russell,  the 
darkey-dialect  poet,  whose  "  Christmas  Night  in 
Quarters"  is  about  the  best  thing  of  the  kind  I 
have  read. 

After  Harte  and  Hay  comes  Charles  Follen 
Adams,  as  "Yawcob  Strauss,"  the  rival  of  the 
veteran  Charles  Leland.  Yawcob  Strauss's  German- 
English  is  very  funny,  and  he  has  Josh  Billings's 
gift  of  preaching  pithy  little  sermons  in  his 
humorous  moralisings.  He  is  quite  an  American 
j^Esop  sometimes.  "Don't  feel  too  big,"  "Mine 
Moder-in-law,"  and  "  Der  Oak  und  der  Vine,"  seem 
to  me  admirable  in  one  or  other  of  these  ways. 
Riley  I  have  already  mentioned  ;  and  James  Jeffrey 


TO  THE  READER.  xxxv 

Roche  wrote  a  poem  of  the  kind,  with  which 
American  newspapers  are  stuffed,  like  a  Christ 
mas  plum-pudding  with  currants,  so  superior  to  the 
rest  that  it  has  taken  its  place  in  literature — 
"  The  V-a-s-e." 

In  a  higher  grade,  the  reader  will  notice  a 
delightful  jeu  d'esprit  from  the  pen  of  John  Paul 
(Charles  Henry  Webb),  "  The  King  and  the  Pope," 
and  E.  R.VSill's  "  Fool's  Prayer." 

So  much  for  indigenous  humour.  Of  late  there 
has  been  a  surfeit  of  vers  de  societe  poems,  with 
an  affectation  of  sprightliness,  taken  from  the 
French,  second  hand,  through  Austin  Dobson, 
whose  exquisite  style  has  met  with  a  more  general 
appreciation  in  America  than  in  his  own  country. 

Up  to 'about  a  year  ago  this  affectation  was  at 
its  very  height,  puffed  up  by  balloons  of  ballades 
and  rondeaux  and  villanelles,  manufactured  prin 
cipally  by  the  very  young  poets.  Clever  young 
Americans  have  a  Chinese  aptitude  for  imitating 
this  sort  of  thing.  Frank  Dempster  Sherman,  who 
has  enjoyed  remarkable  success,  and  whose  work 
manship  is  of  remarkable  beauty,  can  write  Dobson- 
ese  that  might  pass  for  Dobson.  The  heads  of  this 
school  have  produced  some  really  bright  work.  But 
there  are  others  who  have  nothing  but  a  good  ear 
and  a  capacity  for  technical  finish,  and  can  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  this  veneering  with  zest.  The 
same  class  now  is  turning  out  pseudo-Nature  poems 
of  the  smell-of-the-autumn-woods-brand  with  equal 
gusto.  There  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  a  parallel 
between  this  element  in  poetry  and  what  is  called 
"  dudishness  "  in  dress  ;  it  shows  a  certain  delicacy, 
a  certain  originality  of  taste,  but  no  brawn. 

How  refreshing  it  was  to  turn  from  these 
lucubrations  (I  speak  literally,  knowing  what  ex- 


xxxvi  TO  THE  READER. 

penditure  of  midnight  oil)  to  a  poem  like  "  Lasca." 
I  could  say  from  my  heart 

"  I  want  free  life  and  I  want  fresh  air  ; 
And  I  sigh  for  the  canter  after  the  cattle." 

There  is,  unfortunately,  no  evidence  that  this  arch- 
favourite  with  the  American  reciter's  audiences  is 
the  work  of  an  American.  What  evidence  there 
is  rather  points  the  other  way,  for  it  has  been 
traced  back  as  far  as  Temple  Bar,  where  it  ap 
peared  over  the  signature  of  Frank  Desprez,  and 
the  editors  of  the  great  Library  of  American 
Literature,  whom  I  have  consulted,  are  inclined 
to  pronounce  it  the  work  of  an  Englishman  who 
had  been  ranching  in  Texas  or  something  of  the 
kind.  I  was  never  able  to  see  a  copy  of  the 
poem  until  I  came  upon  a  quotation  from  it  in 
the  "  Home-Maker,"  in  Marion  Harland's  charming 
novel  With  Best  Intentions.  I  wrote  off  to  her, 
and  she  was  kind  enough  to  comply  with  my 
request  and  give  me  a  copy  of  the  complete  poem, 
which,  by  her  courtesy,  I  subjoin,  on  the  chance 
of  its  being  proved  American. 

LASCA. 

I  want  free  life  and  I  want  fresh  air; 

And  I  sigh  for  the  canter  after  the  cattle, 

The  crack  of  the  whips  like  shots  in  a  battle, 

The  meltfe  of  horns  and  hoofs  and  heads 

That  wars  and  wrangles  and  scatters  and  spreads  ; 

The  green  beneath  and  the  blue  above, 

And  dash  and  danger,  and  life  and  love. 

And  Lasca  ! 

Lasca  used  to  ride 

On  a  mouse-grey  mustang  close  to  my  side, 
With  blue  serape  and  bright-belled  spur; 
I  laughed  with  joy  as  I  looked  at  her. 
Little  knew  she  of  books  or  of  creeds ; 
An  Ave  Maria  sufficed  her  needs ; 
Little  she  cared,  save  to  be  by  my  side, 


TO  THE  READER.  xxs 

To  ride  with  me,  and  ever  to  ride, 

From  San  Saba's  shore  to  Lavaca's  tide. 

She  was  as  bold  as  the  billows  that  beat, 

She  was  as  wild  as  the  breezes  that  blow ; 

From  her  little  head  to  her  little  feet 

She  was  swayed  in  her  suppleness  to  and  fro 

By  each  gust  of  passion ;  a  sapling  pine, 

That  grows  on  the  edge  of  a  Kansas  bluff, 

And  wars  with  the  wind  when  the  weather  is  rough, 

Is  like  this  Lasca,  this  love  of  mine. 

She  would  hunger  that  I  might  eat, 
Would  take  the  bitter  and  leave  me  the  sweet ; 
But  once,  when  I  made  her  jealous  for  fun, 
At  something  I'd  whispered,  or  looked,  or  done, 
One  Sunday,  in  San  Antonio, 
To  a  glorious  girl  on  the  Alamo, 
She  drew  from  her  garter  a  dear  little  dagger, 
And— sting  of  a  wasp  ! — it  made  me  stagger ! 
An  inch  to  the  left,  or  an  inch  to  the  right, 
And  I  shouldn't  be  maundering  here  to-night ; 
But  she  sobbed,  and,  sobbing,  so  swiftly  bound 
Her  torn  reboso  about  the  wound, 
That  I  quite  forgave  her.     Scratches  don't  count 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande. 

Her  eye  was  brown, — a  deep,  deep  brown; 
Her  hair  was  darker  than  her  eye ; 
And  something  in  her  smile  and  frown, 
Curled  crimson  lip  and  instep  high, 
Showed  that  there  ran  in  each  blue  vein, 
Mixed  with  the  milder  Aztec  strain, 
The  vigorous  vintage  of  Old  Spain. 
She  was  alive  in  every  limb 
With  feeling,  to  the  finger-tips ; 
And  when  the  sun  is  like  a  fire, 
And  sky  one  shining,  soft  sapphire, 
One  does  not  drink  in  little  sips. 

The  air  was  heavy,  the  night  was  hot, 

I  sat  by  her  side,  and  forgot — forgot; 

Forgot  the  herd  that  were  taking  their  rest, 

Forgot  that  the  air  was  close  opprest, 

That  the  Texas  norther  comes  sudden  and  soon, 

In  the  dead  of  night  or  the  blaze  of  noon ; 


xxxviii  TO  THE  READER. 

That  once  let  the  herd  at  its  breath  take  fright, 
Nothing  on  earth  can  stop  the  flight ; 
And  woe  to  the  rider,  and  woe  to  the  steed, 
Who  falls  in  front  of  their  mad  stampede ! 

Was  that  thunder  ?     I  grasped  the  cord 
Of  my  swift  mustang  without  a  word. 
I  sprang  to  the  saddle,  and  she  clung  behind. 
Away  !  on  a  hot  chase  down  the  wind  ! 
But  never  was  fox-hunt  half  so  hard, 
And  never  was  steed  so  little  spared. 
For  we  rode  for  our  lives.     You  shall  hear  how  we  fared  < 
In  Texas,  down  by  the  Eio  Grande. 

The  mustang  flew,  and  we  urged  him  on; 

There  was  one  chance  left,  and  you  have  but  one : 

Halt,  jump  to  the  ground,  and  shoot  your  horse; 

Crouch  under  his  carcase,  and  take  your  chance ; 

And  if  the  steers  in  their  frantic  course 

Don't  batter  you  both  to  pieces  at  once, 

You  may  thank  your  star ;  if  not,  good-bye 

To  the  quickening  kiss  and  the  long-drawn  sigh, 

And  the  open  air  and  the  open  sky, 

In  Texas,  down  by  the  Eio  Grande ! 

The  cattle  gained  ou  us,  and  just  as  I  felt 
For  my  old  six-shooter  behind  in  my  belt, 
Down  came  the  mustang,  and  down  came  we, 
Clinging  together,  and — what  was  the  rest  ? 
A  body  that  spread  itself  on  my  breast. 
Two  arms  that  shielded  my  dizzy  head, 
Two  lips  that  hard  on  my  lips  were  prest; 
Then  came  thunder  in  my  ears, 
As  over  us  surged  the  sea  of  steers, 
Blows  that  beat  blood  into  my  eyes, 
And  when  I  could  rise — 
Lasca  was  dead  ! 

I  gouged  out  a  grave  a  few  feet  deep, 

And  there  in  earth's  arms  I  laid  her  to  sleep ; 

And  there  she  is  lying,  and  no  one  knows, 

And  the  summer  shines  and  the  winter  snows; 

For  many  a  day  the  flowers  have  spread 

A  pall  of  petals  over  her  head ; 

And  the  little  grey  hawk  hangs  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  the  sly  coyote  trots  here  and  there, 


TO  THE  READER.  xxxix 

And  the  black  snake  glides  and  glitters  and  slides 

Into  a  rift  in  a  cottoiiwood  tree; 

And  the  buzzard  sails  on, 

And  comes  and  is  gone, 

Stately  and  still  like  a  ship  at  sea ; 

And  I  wonder  why  I  do  not  care 

For  the  things  that  are  like  the  things  that  were. 

Does  half  my  heart  lie  buried  there 

In  Texas,  down  by  the  Rio  Grande  ? 

Frank  Desprez. 

In  support  of  my  estimate  of  the  cherry-stone- 
carvers  I  quote  the  satire  of  Dr  William  Hayes 
Ward,  a  great  scholar,  and  one  of  the  editors  of  the 
Independent,  at  once  the  principal  religious  journal 
of  the  United  States,  and  that  which  attaches  more 
importance  to  literary  contributions  than  any 
regular  newspaper,  with  perhaps  a  single  excep 
tion  : — 

But  who  are  these  ?    A  company  of  youth 
Upon  a  tesselled  pavement  in  a  court, 
Under  a  marble  statue  of  a  muse, 
Strew  hot-house  flowers  before  a  mimic  fount 
Drawn  from  a  faucet  in  a  rockery. 
With  mutual  admiration  they  repeat 
Their  bric-a-brackery  of  rococo  verse, 
Their  versicles  and  icicles  of  song  ! 

What  know  ye,  verse  wrights  of  the  Poet's  art  ? 

What  noble  passion  or  what  holy  heat 

Is  stirred  to  frenzy  when  your  eyes  admire 

The  peacock  feathers  on  a  frescoed  wall, 

Or  painted  posies  on  a  lady's  fan  ? 

Are  these  thine  only  bards,  young  age,  whose  eyes 

Are  blind  to  Heaven  and  heart  of  man  ;  whose  blood 

Is  water,  and  not  wine  ;  unskilled  in  notes 

Of  liberty,  and  holy  love  of  land, 

And  man,  and  all  things  beautiful ;  deep  skilled 

To  burnish  wit  in  measured  feet,  to  wind 

A  weary  labyrinth  of  laboured  rhymes, 

And  cipher  verses  on  an  abacus  ? 


xl  TO  THE  READER. 

Are  these  thy  poets,  age  of  trusts  and  rings, 

Of  stolen  wealth  and  Senate  millionaires  ? 

These  who  have  only  seen  the  chiselled  Muse, 

And  never  felt  her  life  ?     Why,  tell  me — but 

Ye  know  not — did  the  tuneful  Nine  attend 

Great  Phoebus,  god  of  the  all-kindling  sun  ? 

Ye  never  learned  at  Thespian  festival 

How  bubbling  Hippocrene  answered  the  foot 

Of  Pegasus,  nor  how  the  Delian  god, 

Apollo,  god  of  poets  and  the  lyre, 

Father  of  healing,  speaker  of  oracles, 

Strangled  the  Python  and  the  Sminthian  plague. 

Nor  would  ye  care  to  see  him  come  again 

With  lyre  and  knife  to  flay  the  Marsyan  sham  ! 

Ye  elder  seers  surviving,  grey  with  love 

Of  fellow-man,  and  beauty's  sanctities, 

Delay  your  flight,  Browning  and  Tennyson, 

Lowell  arid  Whittier,  till  these  ears  shall  hear 

Some  higher  note  that  might  call  back  our  dead, 

And  teach  us  to  despise  mechanic  bards 

Expert  to  solder  silver  filigree, 

To  carve  out  verse  to  order  and  for  pay, 

Product  and  purchase  of  the  magazine.* 

While  Stedman,  in  his  Poets  of  America,  remarks 
that  the  brilliant  young  men  who  would  have  been 
poets  were  all  writing  novels,  and,  judging  from 
their  prose,  such  men  as  G.  W.  Cable  and  Frank 
Stockton  would  have  been  fully  armed  if  they  had 
leapt  into  the  arena  of  poetry. 

It  has  been  said  that  America  will  never  produce 
a  national  poet  till  she  produces  one  inspired  by 
the  axe.  In  this  class  of  poetry  no  younger 
American  has  higher  claims  than  John  James 
Piatt. 

He  is  essentially  the  farmer-poet — he  who  has 
been  most  successful  in  capturing  the  spirit  of 
Beauty  in  the  clearing,  the  furrow,  and  the  harvest 
field.  There  is  a  fine  simplicity  in  Piatt's  Illinois 

*  From  "  The  Invocation,"  published  in  the  Independent  of  May 
1888. 


TO  THE  READER.  xli 

and  Ohio  poems,  as  dignified  and  interesting  as  it 
is  simple. 

Speaking  of  Piatt  reminds  me  of  his  colleague 
in  his  first  volume  of  poems,  who  has  since,  in 
another  line,  risen  to  a  pinnacle  in  both  nations — 
William  Dean  Howells.  I  think  Howells,  as  a  poet, 
has  received  scanty  justice.  Few  of  the  younger 
poets  have  so  much  of  the  Longfellow  quality, 
though  he  treats  a  more  familiar  class  of  subjects. 

The  subjects  he  chooses  are  interesting,  and  he 
treats  them  with  a  great  deal  of  poetical  grace  and 
musicality,  as  well  as  the  qualities  for  which  his 
novels  are  famous. 

Two  of  the  best  lyrics  in  this  book  are  by  poets 
very  little  known,  except  through  the  columns  of 
the  Century  Magazine,  Will  Wallace  Harney  and 
Henry  Ames  Blood.  And  even  David  Gray,  author 
of  one  or  two  of  the  finest  American  sonnets,  and 
a  poem  on  Sir  John  Franklyn,  that  might  be  as 
popular  in  England  as  Sir  Francis  Hasting  Doyle's 
"  Private  of  the  Buffs,"  when  it  becomes  known 
there,  is  only  familiar  to  certain  circles. 

Another  gap  in  the  poetical  brotherhood  has 
occurred  since  I  began — that  fair,  rare  spirit, 
Henry  Bernard  Carpenter,  author  of  the  strange, 
weird  poem  "A  Trio  for  Twelfth  Night,"  which 
bears  the  stamp  of  spontaneous  generation  by  poetic 
frenzy  as  distinctly  as  the  "  Ancient  Mariner ; " 
author  also  of  the  "  Liber  Amoris,"  a  mystical  poem 
which  is  a  failure  as  a  whole,  but  pregnant  with 
noble  passages  and  rich  touches.  The  "  Liber 
Amoris"  is  like  one  of  the  great  fifteenth  century 
pictures,  ill-digested,  lacking  in  unity  to  our  modern 
ideas,  but  with  here  a  little  episode,  there  a  magni 
ficent  suit  of  armour  (sometimes  even  smith's  work 
of  gold  and  jewels  let  into  the  canvas),  now  a  tree, 


xlii  TO  THE  READER. 

now  a  flower,  now  a  champing  horse  exquisitely 
done,  not  to  mention  the  castle  in  the  background, 
upon  which  fancy  has  run  wild. 

Englishmen  will  remember  him  as  the  Unitarian 
brother  of  the  Bishop  of  Ripon,  Dr  Boyd  Carpenter. 

Another  luxuriant  genius  is  Cincinnatus  Hiner 
Miller,  better  known  by  his  nom  de  plume  of 
Joaquin  Miller.  Few  of  the  younger  poets  have 
been  read  so  much  as  Miller,  who  is  as  well  known 
in  England  and  Australia  as  in  America.  And 
rightly,  for  Miller,  at  anyrate,  is  distinctly  American, 
and  has  broken  fresh  ground.  He  has  been  called 
the  Poet  of  the  Sierras,  and  he  differs  from  Bret 
Harte  by  the  introduction  of  the  horse  on  to  his 
stage.  Harte  leans  more  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  side 
of  Western  life  with  its  miners,  Miller  more  to  the 
Spanish  side  with  its  vaqueros. 

His  poetry  is  richer  than  most  American  poetry. 
It  seems  as  if  the  voluptuous  South,  with  its  gor 
geous  colouring  and  Italian  opera  mode  of  life,  had 
been  burnt  into  most  of  the  pottery  which  comes 
from  his  wheel.  And  many  of  his  pieces  are  lovely 
— not  fine  porcelain,  he  is  too  careless  or  clumsy  for 
that,  but  like  Japanese  earthenware — remarkable 
this  piece  for  bold  beauty  of  form,  this  for  an 
effective  dash  of  colour,  a  third  for  an  admirable 
little  relievo,  or  a  romance  animating  the  whole. 
Miller  can  tell  a  good  story,  and  can  write  a  ringing 
line,  but  he  cannot  gallop  gracefully  for  long  to 
gether,  or  tuna  out  perfect  workmanship.  However, 
he  is  essentially  interesting,  and  there  is  many  a  bit 
of  fine  poetic  workmanship  which  I  should  like  to 
•  see  perish  before  "  The  Ship  in  the  Desert "  or  the 
opening  part  of  "The  Rhyme  of  the  Great 
River." 

Miller's  merits  and  his  faults  may  be  well  illus- 


TO  THE  READER.  xliii 

trated   by   comparing   "Kit  Carson's   Ride"  with 
"  Lasca,"  a  poem  on  the  same  theme. 

From  California  to  Chicago  is  a  long  way,  and 
Chicago  long  lay  under  the  stigma  of,  Gallio- 
like,  "  caring  for  none  of  these  things  ";  but  there  is 
quite  a  literary  movement  there  now,  at  the  head 
of  which  stands  that  charming  writer  Eugene  Field. 

Near  contemporaries  with  Field  are  Charles  De 
Kay,  Arlo  Bates,  and  George  Parsons  Lathrop. 
De  Kay  is  a  man  to  whom  one  looks  for  a  great 
poem,  a  man  who  has  done  much  and  seen  much, 
with  a  wonderful  variety  both  of  erudition  and 
physical  accomplishments.  Essentially  a  strong 
man,  full  of  vitality  and  combativeness.  His  special 
weakness  is  that  he  trains  his  cannon  over  the  heads 
of  ordinary  mortals.  He  takes  it  for  granted  that 
they  will  understand  his  allusions  as  well  as  he 
does.  I  never  studied  a  poem  of  De  Kay's  without 
being  repaid  for  the  study.  His  poems  are  full  of 
suggestiveness,  and  a  kind  of  philosophy.  But  the 
fact  remains  that  they  require  study,  that  they  are 
not  to  be  read  by  him  who  runs.  This,  I  take  it,  is  a 
distinct  defect.  Have  a  profound  meaning  in  your 
poems  if  you  like,  but  have  a  surface  meaning  also. 
It  is  not  every  reader  who  finds  leisure  or  pleasure 
to  fish. 

De  Kay  seems  to  me  to  write  like  an  overworked 
man,  who  pours  forth  poems  which  he  feels  to  be 
full  of  meat,  but  which  he  has  not  the  time  to  distil 
into  clear  essence.  It  is  a  choice  between  limiting 
his  output,  keeping  it  in  the  secrecy  of  his  study 
till  he  has  the  opportunity  for  distilling,  which  never 
comes,  or  keeping  dumb — all  equally  distasteful  to 
a  strong  and  ardent  nature.  But  it  is  to  such 
natures,  in  a  happy  interval  of  leisure,  that  one 
looks  for  a  great  work. 


xliv  TO  THE  READER. 

Arlo  Bates,  who  has  made  quite  a  mark  as  a 
novelist,  is  a  man  with  a  strong  personality,  in  con 
versation  almost  as  cynical  as  his  novels,  but  a  good 
lover  and  a  good  hater.  His  impressive  sonnets 
are  an  index  to  the  real  earnestness  of  the  man. 

Lathrop  is  the  best  war  poet  among  all  the 
younger  poets  on  the  Northern  side,  picturesque, 
impassioned,  pathetic.  In  his  "  Gettysburg  Ode  " 
he  soars  to  the  heights  of  eloquence. 

To  my  mind,  the  finest  work  produced  among  the 
very  young  men  is  J.  E.  Nesmith's  "  Monadnoc,"  the 
bulk  of  which  I  have  given.  He  has  written  in 
the  style  attempted  by  the  pseudo-Nature  school,  but 
his  work  bears  the  impress  of  genuine  communing 
with  Nature,  and  thorough  gestation  and  finish.  I 
do  not  know  the  age  of  Daniel  Dawson  of  Phila 
delphia,  but  I  have  seen  some  very  strong  poetry 
by  him. 

There  are  poets  who  should  have  appeared  in  this 
volume,  and  whom  I  should  have  been  only  too 
glad  to  include,  such  as  the  third  of  the  Californian 
triumvirate,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  whose 
quality  was  recognised  many  years  ago  by  Long 
fellow  in  his  Poems  of  Places,  and  the  Southern 
War  poet,  James  Ryder  Randall,  whose  "  Maryland, 
my  Maryland"  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated 
songs  of  the  War.  But  nothing  has  been  inserted 
in  this  volume  without  the  permission  of  both 
author  and  publisher,  and  I  did  not  receive  replies 
from  these  gentlemen  until  too  late  to  include 
specimens  from  their  poems. 

I  have  heard  much,  also,  of  G.  E.  Woodberry's 
"  North  Shore  Watch,"  but  have  never  been  able  to 
see  a  copy  as  it  was  privately  printed,  and  the 
author  away  from  America. 

There  is  yet  one  more  little  knot  whom  I  should 


TO  THE  READER. 


xlv 


have  liked,  by  extending  my  limitation,  to  include, 
for  the  British  Public  does  not  know  them  as  it  does 
the  other  members  of  the  Longfellow  group — I 
refer  to  R.  H.  Stoddard,  Walt  Whitman,  Thomas 
Parsons,  author  of  the  famous  poem  on  the  bust  of 
Dante,  H.  H.  Brownell,  the  naval  war  poet,  and  one 
or  two  more. 

But  they  belong  to  the  earlier  generation,  though 
the  astonishing  vitality  of  Stoddard  keeps  him  still 
jousting  among  men  twenty  years  his  junior. 

Before  proceeding  to  the  poetesses,  it  will  be 
interesting  to  compare  the  relative  progress  of  the 
younger  poets  of  the  two  branches  of  Shakespeare's 
family  by  giving  a  list  of  the  English  poets  who 
come  within  the  period  of  this  work.  The  follow 
ing  is  a  list  of  those  born  in  the  Old  Country,  after 
1830,  who  are  included  in  Stedman's  Victorian 
Poets,  which  is  perhaps  the  best  authority  on 
contemporary  English  poetry : — 


ALGERNON  C.  SWINBURNE. 
ALEXANDER  SMITH. 
ANDREW  LANG. 
JEAN  INGELOW. 
ISA  CRAIG  KNOX. 
CHRISTINA  G.  EOSSETTI. 
AUGUSTA  WEBSTER. 
SEBASTIAN  EVANS. 
GEORGE  A.  SIMCOX. 
PHILIP  B.  MARSTON. 
JOHN  LEYCESTER  WARREN. 
JOHN  PAYNE. 
A.  W.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
LEWIS  MORRIS. 
EICHARD  GARNETT. 
FREDERICK  H.  MYERS. 
Mrs  HAMILTON  KING. 
GEORGE  MEREDITH. 
J.  A.  SYMONDS. 


EDWIN  ARNOLD. 
ALFRED  AUSTIN. 
Mrs  SINGLETON  (VIOLET 

FANE). 

JAMES  THOMSON. 
EDMUND  GOSSE. 
WILFRED  S.  BLUNT. 
EICHARD  DIXON. 
A.  M.  F.  EOBINSON. 

C.  C.  LlDDELL. 

THEODORE  WATTS. 
EDWARD  DOWDEN. 
WILLIAM  WATSON. 
P.  J.  HAMERTON 
E.  J.  LEE  HAMILTON. 
W.  J.  DAWSON. 
ERNEST  MYERS. 
EDWARD  C.  LEFROY. 
WALTER  H.  POLLOCK. 
OSCAR  WILDE. 


xlvi 


TO  THE  READER. 


REYNELL  RODD. 
ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 
AUSTIN  DOBSON. 
MARY  DOWNING. 
ROBERT,  LORD  LYTTON. 
ROBERT  BUCHANAN. 
GEORGE  BARLOW 
WALTER  C.  SMITH. 
HARRIET  E.  HAMILTON-KING. 
MATHILDE  BLIXDE. 
MICHAEL  FIELD. 
ERIC  MACKAY. 
ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


HALL  CAINE. 
WILLIAM  SHARP. 
DOUGLAS  SLADEN. 
ADAM  LINDSAY  GORDON. 
C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS. 
CLEMENT  SCOTT. 
T.  MARZIALS. 
HAMILTON  AIDE. 
JOSEPH  ASHBY  STERRY. 
LEWIS  CARROLL. 
WILLIAM  JOHN  COURTHOPE. 
WESTLAND  MARSTON. 
HERMAN  MERIVALE. 


W.  S.  GILBERT. 


To  pass  on  to  the  poetesses,  "  H.  H.,"  whom  I  place 
at  their  head,  has  already  been  discussed,  and  I 
am  precluded  from  discussing  Edith  M.  Thomas 
and  the  late  Emma  Lazarus,  because  copyright 
difficulties  prevent  my  laying  before  my  readers 
adequate  specimens  to  support  my  remarks.  I 
may  say,  however,  that  the  general  verdict  places 
Miss  Thomas  very  high,  if  not  at  the  head  of  the 
living  women  poets  of  America. 

Celia  Thaxter  is  unrivalled  as  a  poetess  of  the 
sea,  and  many  editions  have  attested  the  way  in 
which  her  genius  is  recognised  by  her  fellow- 
countrymen.  One  of  the  volumes  from  which 
I  quote  has  passed  through  sixteen. 

The  poetry  of  Louise  Chandler  Moulton  is  musical, 
pathetic,  delicately  finished.  She  has  just  that 
charm  which  endears  "  Trefoil "  to  English  readers 
— a  natural  singer  devoid  of  poetical  artifice 
or  mannerism.  I  consider  her  the  best  woman 
sonnet-writer. 

Next  to  "H.  H."  among  the  poetesses  I  should 
place  Nora  Perry.  In  spite  of  unevenness  of  work 
manship,  Miss  Perry  has  in  a  large  degree  just 


TO   THE  READER.  xlvii 

that  in  which  recent  American  poetry  seems  to 
me  least  remarkable — inspiration. 

When  I  read  the  masterpieces  of  two  brothers, 
Westward  Ho  and  Geoffrey  Hamlyn,  when  I 
read  The  Daughter  of  Heth  or  "  Edinburgh  after 
Flodden,"  when  I  read  Cable's  best  work,  or 
that  most  tragical  tragedy,  Juliana  Horatia 
Ewing's  Story  of  a  Short  Life,  I  feel  the 
blood  tingling  at  the  roots  of  my  hair,  the  tears 
welling;  I  feel  their  inspiration,  and  say  to 
myself,  "  This  is  genius."  But  very  little  of  what 
I  have  read  for  this  anthology  affects  me  thus. 
Stedman  has  brought  this  thrill  in  my  veins,  this 
mist  over  my  eyes,  once,  twice,  so  have  Hayne  and 
Ryan  and  Lathrop  with  their  battle-pieces,  so  has 
Hay  with  a  love  poem,  and  Harte  with  an  episode. 
These  are  but  few,  and  I  don't  know  that  any 
of  them  have  stirred  me  more  than  "Riding 
Down."  Miss  Perry  is  a  New  Englander  of  New 
Englanders.  No  one  has  made  the  stately  figures 
of  the  great  actors  in  the  Revolution  drama 
rise  before  us  with  such  a  Witch  of  Endor  veri 
similitude. 

What  she  has  done  for  her  magnificent  Went- 
worths  Margaret  Junkin  Preston  has  done  for 
the  Pilgrims,  though  without  the  same  fire. 

Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  is  a  born  poetess.  Not 
infrequently  in  her  poems,  as  in  "  The  Lonely 
Grave,"  one  comes  across  that  rare  note  of  spon 
taneity. 

Edna  Dean  Proctor's  great  poem  I  am  unable  to 
quote,  as  it  has  not  yet  been  published.  This  is 
much  to  be  regretted,  as  it  is  on  a  purely  American 
theme — "A  Voice  from  the  Zuni  Indians,"  and 
created  quite  a  furore  among  the  literati  when 
recited  in  Boston. 


xlviii  TO  THE  READER. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  needs  no  comment,  as 
she  is  known  all  over  the  world. 

Reference  has  been  made  above  to  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox.  Much  ridicule  has  been  levelled  at  her, 
and  much  solid  success  has  fallen  to  her  share.  I 
doubt  if  any  living  poetess's  books  sell  like  hers. 
Her  publisher  told  me  that  he  had  sold  65,000  copies 
of  Poems  of  Passion.  It  is  interesting  to  analyse 
the  sources  of  her  success.  It  was  originally  due, 
undoubtedly,  to  the  amatory  reputation  of  her 
poems.  But  she  has  also  a  considerable  gift  of 
melody — can  invent  a  ringing  metre,  and,  choosing 
her  themes  from  the  everyday  life  of  all,  has  a 
knack  of  putting  into  a  pithy  line  what  the  average 
person  has  been  thinking  all  along  but  never  said. 
There  is  a  good  deal  in  common,  both  in  the  capti 
vating  jingle  of  their  lines  and  in  the  mother- wit 
with  which  they  put  into  apophthegms  the  philo 
sophy  of  the  life  we  live,  between  her  and  that 
most  successful  of  Colonial  poets,  Adam  Lindsay 
Gordon — the  Burns  of  Victoria.  I  met  an  ex-drover 
from  Queensland  the  other  day  who  asked  me  if  I 
had  ever  seen  her  poems,  and  told  me  that  he 
thought  "  they  were  splendid ;  they  reminded  him 
so  much  of  Gordon's." 

Poetry  has  its  genre  as  well  as  painting. 

I  shall  close  my  glance  at  the  contemporary 
poetry  of  America  with  some  remarks  on  four 
gifted  young  poetesses  who  may  at  any  time  take 
a  leading  position  among  the  women  singers  of 
their  country,  Helen  Gray  Cone,  Danske  Dandridge, 
Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  and  Margaret  Deland.  Of 
these,  so  far,  Margaret  Deland  has  achieved  much 
the  greatest  success.  Her  poems  have  gone  through 
several  editions,  while  her  religious  novel,  John 
Ward,  Preacher,  had  quite  a  phenomenal  success. 


TO  THE  READER.  xlix 

She  writes  charming  little  poems  in  the  style  of 
Herrick ;  and  some  of  them,  such  as  the  "  Affaire 
d' Amour"  quoted,  are  thoroughly  Herrickian  in 
their  beauty  and  spirit.  And  she  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  left  alone  in  her  studies  after  the 
sweetest  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century,  while 
others  were  learning  to  play  the  "fair  old  tunes 
of  France,"  most  of  them,  it  is  to  be  feared,  not 
from  the  original  music,  but  from  the  selec 
tions  of  Dobson,  Gosse,  and  Lang.  At  one  time 
it  seemed  uncertain  whether  the  cherry-stone- 
carvers  would  do  a  series  of  cameos  from  Herrick 
or  Villon  ;  but  the  bluff  Devonshire  parson  escaped 
the  chipping,  and  Mrs  Deland  was  left  in  un 
disturbed  possession  of  her  delightful  "  Old  Garden" 
to  cultivate  the  flowers  of  seventeenth  century 
England. 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney's  "  Wild  Ride "  shows 
genuine  inspiration,  and  when  she  shakes  off  the 
trammels  of  her  curious  and  extensive  reading,  and 
evolves  from  herself  solely,  she  has  a  great  promise 
before  her.  But,  to  my  mind,  almost  the  most 
poetical  among  the  very  young  poetesses  are  Danske 
Dandridge  and  Helen  Gray  Cone. 

Their  styles  and  choice  of  subjects  are  quite 
different,  but  both  have  the  genuine  note — are 
really  song-birds.  Take  for  instance  Miss  Cone's 
"  The  Accolade,"  "  Emelie,"  and  "  Elsinore,"  or  Mrs 
Dandridge's  "Desire"  and  "The  Dead  Moon." 
Both  are  happy  and  ingenious  in  their  metres  and 
subjects,  and  fresh  in  their  feeling. 

Here  I  must  say  a  few  words  of  sincere  regret 
over  two  more  poets,  who  died  during  the  progress 
of  this,  work,  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates,  author  of  the 
generous  poem  on  Major  Andre,  "At  Tappan," 
which  will  bring  Englishmen  and  Americans  nearer 

d 


1  TO  THE  READER. 

together,  and  Dr  John  Eliot  Bowen,  whose  delicate 
taste  in  editing  the  literary  columns  of  the  Inde 
pendent,  and  whose  translations  of  "  Carmen  Silva," 
proved  him  a  true  poet,  as  well  as  a  true  man. 

With  them  I  leave  the  United  States  to  turn  for 
a  few  minutes  to  Canada,  to  which  I  shall  advert 
very  briefly,  for  two  or  three  reasons.  In  the  first 
place,  my  relations  with  the  younger  Canadian 
poets  have  been  so  intimate  that  my  judgment 
might  be  warped ;  and,  in  the  second,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  avoid  so  invidious  a  topic  as  compari 
son  with  the  younger  poets  across  the  border; 
while,  in  the  third  place,  with  a  few  exceptions, 
the  selections  from  Canadian  authors  have  not 
been  made  by  myself.  I  had  to  leave  New  York 
and  commence  my  protracted  travels  across  Canada 
to  Japan  when  I  had  only  begun  the  Canadian 
portion  of  my  book,  and  consequently  I  felt  that 
it  would  be  an  advantage  to  entrust  the  rest  of  the 
selections  to  Mr  Goodridge  Bliss  Roberts,  the 
literary  editor  of  Progress,  who  has  been  making 
a  study  of  the  subject  for  two  or  three  years  past. 
I  am  only  responsible  for  the  selections  from 
Charles  George  Douglas  Roberts,  Jane  Elizabeth 
Gostwycke  Roberts,  Bliss  Carman,  Arthur  Went- 
worth,  Hamilton  Eaton,  William  Douw  Lighthall, 
George  Frederick  Cameron,  Sophie  M.  Almon, 
James  Hannay,  and  the  great  Frechette,  '  the 
laureate  of  the  French  Academy.  Roberts  has 
been  distinctly  the  most  successful  of  the  (English- 
speaking)  younger  Canadian  poets,  his  name  al 
ready  being  familiar  in  England  as  well  as  the 
United  States.  Elsewhere  I  have  had  occasion  to 
write  very  warmly  of  his  work. 

Carman's  "Death  in  April"  had  the  honour  of 
being  accepted  by  so  fastidious  a  critic  as  Aldrich 


TO  THE  READER.  li 

for  the  Atlantic  Monthly;  and  almost  alone  of 
younger  poets  on  this  side  has  he  enjoyed  the 
honour  of  contributing  poems  to  the  great  English 
literary  papers  and  reviews. 

Archibald  Lampman  and  the  Rev.  W.  W.  Camp 
bell  are  rivals  in  the  favour  of  American  magazines, 
and  both  are  genuine  poets  who  hear  Nature's 
many  voices,  and  show  direct  communication  with 
her. 

Cameron  rests  under  the  disadvantage  of  his 
premature  death.  Eaton,  I  think,  has  been  the 
most  happy  of  the  Canadians  in  treating  their 
national  legends.  There  are  few  writers  in  the 
United  States  who  equal  him  in  this  respect.  His 
volume,  though  only  recently  issued,  is  one  of  the 
best  yet  produced  by  a  Canadian,  with  a  fine  Long 
fellow-like  vein  running  through  it.  Mair's  fine 
play,  Tecumseh,  has,  I  hear,  enjoyed  the  largest 
circulation  of  any  Canadian  poem.  Two  poetesses 
enjoy  a  wide  reputation  in  Canada,  Agnes  M. 
Machar,  and  the  late  Isabella  Valancy  Crawford ; 
and  Sophie  M.  Almond  Hensley  has  produced  a 
really  remarkable  sonnet. 

John  Reade  is  a  true  poet,  whose  position  as  one 
of  the  principal  leader-writers  of  Canada,  has  left 
him  with  but  little  time  to  write  gems  like  "  In  my 
Heart."  The  most  illustrious  poet  in  the  dominion 
is  a  French  Canadian  writer,  Louis  Frechette, 
crowned  laureate  by  the  French  Academy. 

I  was  acquainted  too  late  with  the  unusual 
merit  of  Duncan  Campbell  Scott.  The  virile  and 
emphatic  poems  noted  below  are  the  works  of 
the  Rev.  Frederick  George  Scott. 

But  to  end  these  desultory  remarks,  Canada's 
day  in  poetry  has  not  yet  come.  She  has  produced 
no  Longfellow,  no  Bryant,  no  Poe,  no  Emerson, 


Hi  TO  THE  READER. 

no  Whittier.  But  she  has  a  generation  of  bright 
young  poets  coming  on,  who  are,  I  think,  equal  to 
their  contemporaries  in  the  United  States.  In 
conclusion,  I  have  to  thank  the  authors  quoted  and 
their  publishers  for  permission  to  publish  specimens 
of  their  works  in  America.  I  wish  I  had  to  thank 
them  for  England  also,  but  the  copyright  league, 
much  wished  for  on  both  sides,  is  not  yet  an 
accomplished  fact. 

I  have  to  give  special  thanks,  for  most  invaluable 
assistance  in  getting  my  work  together,  to  the 
editors  of  the  Century  Magazine;  to  Mr  Arthur 
Stedman  of  the  Library  of  American  Literature;  to 
Mr  Gleeson  White,  editor  of  that  admirable  little 
anthology  Ballades  and  Rondeaux,  and,  above 
all,  to  Mr  H.  O.  Houghton,  head  of  the  firm  of 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.;  to  Mr  T.  Miles  of  the 
firm  of  Roberts  Brothers;  and  Mr  North  of  the 
firm  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons — the  three  firms 
which  own  nearly  all  the  most  important  copy 
rights — both  for  permissions  and  help. 

Nor  must  I  omit  to  mention  the  special  help 
received  from  Dr  D.  G.  Oilman,  President  of  the 
great  Johns  Hopkins  University;  President  Gates 
of  Rutger's  College;  Dr  William  Hayes  Ward  of 
the  Independent;  and  Mrs  Turnbull  with  regard 
to  Sidney  Lanier.  I  will  conclude  with  .  an 
adaptation  of  our  Australian  motto — "Advance 
America." 

DOUGLAS  SLADEN. 


Younger  American  Poets. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 

[Born  at  Charleston,  8.C.,  1st  January  1830,  died  near  Augusta, 
Ga.,  6th  July  1886.  Author  of  Poems  (Boston,  1855)  ;  Sonnets 
and  other  Poems  (New  York,  1857)  ;  Avolis,  a  Legend  of  the 
Island  of  Cos  (Boston,  1859)  ;  Legends  and  Lyrics  (Philadelphia, 
1872)  ;  The  Mountain  of  the  Lovers,  and  other  Poems  (New 
York,  1873).  The  poem?  quoted  are  taken  from  the  complete 
edition  of  his  poems,  published  by  the  D.  Lothrop  Company, 
Boston,  in  1882,  by  kind  permission  of  the  publishers.] 

V1CKSBURG. 

A    BALLAD. 

FOR  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  flaming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not. 
"  If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"  Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 

Be  ramparts  of  the  dead  !  " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards, 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim  ; 
And  e'en  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 
A 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  in  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts  : 
Bufc  the  Lord,  our  Shield,  was  with  us, 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 

And  the  little  children  gambolled, 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed, 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice-mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster, 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  about  us,  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse. 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels, 

Those  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle-tide  ; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode,  with  steps  of  hope, 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 


PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


BEAUREGARD'S  APPEAL. 

YEA  !  since  the  need  is  bitter, 

Take  down  those  sacred  bells, 
Whose  music  speaks  of  hallowed  joys, 

And  passionate  farewells ! 

But  ere  ye  fall  dismantled, 

Ring  out,  deep  bells  !  once  more  : 

And  pour  on  the  waves  of  the  passing  wind 
The  symphonies  of  yore. 

Let  -the  latest  born  be  welcomed 

By  pealings  glad  and  long, 
Let  the  latest  dead  in  the  churchyard  bed 

Be  laid  with  solemn  song. 

And  the  bells  above  them  throbbing, 

Should  sound  in  mournful  tone, 
As  if,  in  grief  for  a  human  death, 

They  prophesied  their  own. 

Who  says  'tis  a  desecration 

To  strip  the  temple  towers, 
And  invest  the  metal  of  peaceful  notes 

With  death-compelling  powers  1 

A  truce  to  cant  and  folly  ! 

Our  people's  all  at  stake, 
Shall  we  heed  the  cry  of  the  shallow  fool, 

Or  pause  for  the  bigot's  sake  ? 

Then  crush  the  struggling  sorrow  ! 

Feed  high  your  furnace  fires, 
And  mould  into  deep-mouthed  guns  of  bronze, 

The  bells  from  a  hundred  spires. 

Methinks  no  common  vengeance, 

No  transient  war  eclipse, 
Will  follow  the  awful  thunder-burst 

From  their  adamantine  lips. 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A  cause  like  ours  is  holy, 

And  it  useth  holy  things ; 
While  over  the  storm  of  a  righteous  strife, 

May  shine  the  angel's  wings. 

Where'er  our  duty  leads  us, 

The  grace  of  God  is  there, 
And  the  lurid  shrine  of  war  may  hold 

The  Eucharist  of  prayer. 


BEYOND  THE  POTOMAC. 

THEY  slept  on  the  field  which  their  valour  had  won, 
But  arose  with  the  first  early  blush  of  the  sun, 
For  they  knew  that  a  great  deed  remained  to  be  done, 
When  they  passed  o'er  the  river. 

They  arose  with  the  sun,  and  caught  life  from  his  light, 
These  giants  of  courage,  those  Anaks  in  fight, 
And  they  laughed  out  aloud  in  the  joy  of  their  might, 
Marching  swift  for  the  river. 

On,  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills  ; 

On,  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills ; 

And  the   one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant,   and 

thrills 
At  the  thought  of  the  river. 

Oh  !  the  sheen  of  their  swords  !  the  fierce  gleam  of  their 

eyes! 

It  seemed  as  on  earth  a  new  sunlight  would  rise, 
And,  king-like,  flash  up  to  the  sun  in  the  skies, 
O'er  their  path  to  the  river. 

But  their  banners,  shot-scarred,  and  all  darkened  with 

gore, 

On  a  strong  wind  of  morning  streamed  wildly  before 
Like  wings  of  death-angels  swept  fast  to  the  shore, 
The  green  shore  of  the  river. 


PA  UL  HAMILTON  HA  YNE.  5 

As  they  march,  from  the  hill  side,  the  hamlet,  the  stream, 
Gaunt  throngs  whom  the  foemen  had  manacled,  teem, 
Like  men  just  aroused  from  some  terrible  dream, 
To  cross  sternly  the  river. 

They  behold  the  broad  banners,  blood-darkened  yet  fair, 
And  a  moment  dissolves  the  last  spell  of  despair, 
While  a  peal,  as  of  victory,  swells  on  the  air, 
Rolling  out  to  the  river. 

And  that  cry,  with  a  thousand  strange  echoings  spread, 
Till  the  ashes  of  heroes  were  thrilled  in  their  bed, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  passion  surged  up  from  the  dead, 
"  Ay,  press  on  to  the  river." 

On,  on  !  like  the  rushing  of  storms  through  the  hills, 

On,  on  !  with  a  tramp  that  is  firm  as  their  wills ; 

And  the  one  heart  of  thousands  grows  buoyant,  and 

thrills 
As  they  pause  by  the  river. 

Then  the  wan  face  of  Maryland,  haggard  and  worn 
At  this  sight,  lost  the  touch  of  its  aspect  forlorn, 
And  she  turned  on  the  foemen,  full-statured  in  scorn, 
Pointing  stern  to  the  river. 

And  Potomac  flowed  calmly,  scarce  heaving  her  breast, 
With  her  low-lying  billows  all  bright  in  the  west, 
For  a  charm  as  from  God  lulled  the  waters  to  rest 
Of  the  fair  rolling  river. 

Passed  !  passed  !  the  glad  thousands  march  safe  through 

the  tide  ; 

Hark  !  foeman,  and  hear  the  deep  knell  of  your  pride, 
Ringing  weird-like  and  wild,  pealing  up  from  the  side 
Of  the  calm-Sowing  river. 

'Neath  a  blow  swift  and  mighty  the  tyrant  may  fall ; 
Vain,  vain  !  to  his  gods  swells  a  desolate  call ; 
Hath  his  grave  not  been  hollowed,  and  woven  his  pall, 
Since  they  passed  o'er  the  river  ? 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THORN. 

SHE'S  loveliest  of  the  festal  throng 

In  delicate  form  and  Grecian  face  ; 
A  beautiful  incarnate  song  ; 

A  marvel  of  harmonious  grace  ; 
And  yet  I  know  the  truth  I  speak ; 

From  those  gay  groups  she  stands  apart, 
A  rose  upon  her  tender  cheek, 

A  thorn  within  her  heart. 

Though  bright  her  eyes'  bewildering  gleams, 

Fair  tremulous  lips  and  shining  hair, 
A  something  born  of  mournful  dreams, 

Breathes  round  her  sad  enchanted  air ; 
No  blithesome  thoughts  at  hide-and-seek 

From  out  her  dimples  smiling  start; 
If  still  the  rose  be  on  her  cheek, 

A  thorn  is  in  her  heart. 

Young  lover,  tost  'twixt  hope  and  fear, 

Your  whispered  vow  and  yearning  eyes 
Yon  marbled  Clytie  pillared  near 

Could  move  as  soon  to  soft  replies  ; 
Or,  if  she  thrill  at  words  you  speak, 

Love's  memory  prompts  the  sudden  start ; 
The  rose  has  paled  upon  her  cheek, 

The  thorn  has  pierced  her  heart. 


THE  RED  LIL  Y. 

I  CALL  her  the  Red  Lily.     Lo  !  she  stands 
From  all  her  milder  sister-flowers  apart ; 

A  conscious  grace  in  those  fair  folded  hands, 
Pressed  on  the  guileful  throbbings  of  her  heart 


PA  UL  HAMILTON  HA  YNE. 

I  call  her  the  Red  Lily.     As  all  airs 

Of  North  or  South,  the  Lily's  leaves  that  stir, 

Seem  lost  in  languorous  sweetness  that  despairs 
Of  blissful  life  or  hope,  except  through  her. 

So  this  Red  Lily  of  maids,  this  human  flower, 
Yielding  no  love,  all  sweets  of  love  doth  take, 

Twining  such  spells  of  passion's  secret  power 
As,  woven  once,  what  lordliest  will  can  break  1 


ARIEL. 

"  My  dainty  Ariel." — Tempest. 

A  VOICE  like  the  murmur  of  doves, 
Soft  lightning  from  eyes  of  blue ; 

On  her  cheek  a  flush  like  love's 
First  delicate,  rosebud  hue  ; 

Bright  torrents  of  hazel  hair, 
Which  glittering,  flow  and  float 

O'er-the  swell  of  her  bosom  fair, 

And  the  snows  of  her  matchless  throat ; 

Lithe  limbs  of  a  life  so  fine, 

That  their  rhythmical  motion  seems 

But  a  part  of  the  grace  divine 
Of  the  music  of  haunted  dreams. 

Low  gurgling  laughter,  as  sweet 
As  the  swallow's  song  i'  the  South, 

And  a  ripple  of  dimples  that  dancing,  meet 
By  the  curves  of  a  perfect  mouth. 

O  creature  of  light  and  air  ! 

O  fairy  sylph  o'  the  sun  ! 
Hearts  whelmed  in  the  tidal  gold  of  her  hair 

Rejoice  to  be  so  undone  ! 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS 


PRE-EXISTENCE. 

WHILE  sauntering  through  the  crowded  street 
Some  half-remembered  face  I  meet, 

Albeit  upon  no  mortal  shore 

That  face,  me  thinks,  hath  smiled  before. 

Lost  in  a  gay  and  festal  throng, 
I  tremble  at  some  tender  song — 

Set  to  an  air  whose  golden  bars 
I  must  have  heard  in  other  stars. 

In  sacred  aisles  I  pause  to  share 
The  blessings  of  a  priestly  prayer, 

When  the  whole  scene  which  greets  mine  eyes 
In  some  strange  mode  I  recognise, 

As  one  whose  every  mystic  part 
I  feel  prefigured  in  my  heart. 

At  sunset,  as  I  calmly  stand, 
A  stranger  on  an  alien  strand, 

Familiar  as  my  childhood's  home 

Seems  the  long  stretch  of  wave  and  foam. 

One  sails  toward  me  o'er  the  bay, 
And  what  he  comes  to  do  and  say 

I  can  foretell.     A  prescient  lore 
Springs  from  some  life  outlived  of  yore. 

O  swift,  instinctive,  startling  gleams 
Of  deep  soul-knowledge  !  not  as  dreams^ 

For  aye  ye  vaguely  dawn  and  die, 
But  oft,  with  lightning  certainty, 

Pierce  through  the  dark,  oblivious  brain, 
To  make  old  thoughts  and  memories  plain — 


PA  UL  HAMILTON  HA  YNE. 

Thoughts  which,  perchance,  must  travel  back 
Across  the  wild  bewildering  track 

Of  countless  aeons ;  memories  far, 
High-reaching,  as  yon  pallid  star, 

Unknown,  scarce  seen,  whose  flickering  grace 
Faints  on  the  outmost  rings  of  space. 


AFTER  THE  TORNADO. 

LAST  eve  the  earth  was  calm,  the  heavens  were  clear ; 
A  peaceful  glory  crowned  the  waning  west, 
And  yonder  distant  mountain's  hoary  crest 
The  semblance  of  a  silvery  robe  did  wear, 
Shot  through  with  moon-wrought  tissues  ;  far  and  near, 
Wood,  rivulet,  field — all  Nature's  face — expressed 
The  haunting  presence  of  enchanted  rest. 
One  twilight  star  shone  like  a  blissful  tear, 
Unshed.     But  now,  what  ravage  in  a  night ! 
Yon  mountain  height  fades  in  its  cloud-girt  pall ; 
The  prostrate  wood  lies  smirched  with  rain  and  mire; 
Through  the  shorn  fields  the  brook  whirls  wild  and 

white ; 

While  o'er  the  turbulent  waste  and  woodland  fall, 
Glares  the  red  sunrise  blurred  with  mists  of  fire  ! 


TRISTRAM  OF  THE   WOOD. 

ONCE  when  the  autumn  fields  were  wet, 
The  trumpets  rang  ;  the  tide  of  battle  set 
Toward  grey  Broceliande,  by  the  western  sea. 

In  the  fore-front  of  conflict  grimly  stood, 
Clothed  in  dark  armour,  Tristram  of  the  Wood, 
And  round  him  ranged  his  knights  of  Brittany. 


io  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Of  lordlier  frame  than  even  the  lordliest  there, 

Firm  as  a  tower,  upon  his  vast  destrere, 

He  looked  as  one  whose  soul  was  steeped  in  trance. 

Ne'er  spake  nor  stirred  he,  though  the  trumpet's  sound 
Echoed  abroad,  and  all  the  glittering  ground 
Shook  to  the  steel-clad  warrior's  swift  advance ; 

Ne'er  spake  nor  stirred  he,  for  the  mystic  hour 
Closed  o'er  him  then ;  the  glamour  of  its  power 
Dream-wrought,  and  sadly  beautiful  with  love — 

Love  of  the  lost  Iseult.     In  marvellous  stead 
Of  thronging  faces,  with  looks  stern  and  dread, 
Through  the  dense  dust,  the  hostile  plumes  above, 

He  saw  his  fair,  lost  Iseult's  passionate  eyes, 
And  o'er  the  crash  of  lances  heard  her  cries, 
Shrill  with  despair,  when  last  they  twain  did  part. 

While  others  thrilled  to  strife,  he,  thrilled  with  woe, 
Felt  his  life-currents  shuddering  cold  and  low 
Round  the  worn  bastions  of  his  broken  heart. 

Then  rolled  his  way  the  battle's  furious  flood ; 
Squadrons  charged  on  him  blindly ;  blows  and  blood 
Showered  down  like  hail  and  water ;  vainly  drew 

The  whole  war  round  him,  still  his  broadsword's  gleam 
Flashed  in  death's  front,  and  still,  as  mapped  in  dream, 
He  fought  and  slew,  witting  not  whom  he  slew, 

Nor  knew  whose  arm  had  smitten  him  deep  and  sore — 
So  deep  that  Tristram  never,  never  more 
Shone  in  the  van  of  conflict ;  but  the  smart 

Of  his  fierce  wound  tortured  him  night  and  day, 
Till,  through  God's  grace,  his  life-blood  ebbed  away, 
And  death's  sweet  quiet  healed  his  broken  heart. 


WILL.   WALLACE  HARNEY.  11 


WILL.  WALLACE  HARNEY. 

[Born  at  Bloomington,  Indiana,  20th  June  1831.     Has  resided 
since  1869  in  Florida.] 


ADO  NA  IS. 

SHALL  we  meet  no  more,  my  love,  at  the  binding  of  the 

sheaves, 

In  the  happy  harvest-fields,  as  the  sun  sinks  low, 
When  the  orchard  paths  are  dim  with  the  drift  of  fallen 

leaves, 

And  the  reapers  sing  together,  in  the  mellow,  misty  eves: 
Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 

Love  met  us  in  the  orchard,  ere  the  corn  had  gathered 

plume ; 

Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 
Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die  when  the  months  are  in 

the  bloom, 
And  the  peaks  are  ripe  with  sunset,  like  the  tassels  of 

the  broom, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die,  leafing  sweeter  each  to 

each ; 

Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 
All  the  heart  was  full  of  feeling  :  Love  had  ripened  into 

speech, 
Like  the  sap  that  turns  to  nectar  in  the  velvet  of  the 

peach, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Sweet  as  summer  days  that  die  at  the  ripening  of  the 

corn, 
Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 


12  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Sweet  as  lovers'  fickle  oaths,  sworn  to  faithless  maids 

forsworn, 
When  the  musty  orchard  breathes  like  a  mellow-drinking 

horn, 
Over  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Love  left  us  at  the  dying  of  the  mellow  Autumn  eves ; 

Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 
When  the  skies  are  ripe  and  fading,  like  the  colours  of 

the  leaves, 
And  the  reapers  kiss  and  part,  at  the  binding  of  the 

sheaves, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Then  the  reapers  gather  home,  from  the  grey  and  misty 

meres ; 

Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 
Then  the  reapers  gather  home,  and  they  bear  upon  their 

spears, 
One  whose  face  is  like  the  moon,  fallen  grey  among  the 

spheres, 
With  the  daylight's  curse  upon  it,  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 

Faint  as  far-off  bugles  blowing,  soft  and  low  the  reapers 

sung ; 

Oh  !  happy  are  the  apples  when  the  south  winds  blow  ! 
Sweet  as  summer  in  the  blood,  when  the  heart  is  ripe 

and  young, 
Love  is  sweetest   in  the  dying,  like  the  sheaves  he  lies 

among, 
In  the  happy  harvest-fields  as  the  sun  sinks  low. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  13 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

[Born  at  Hartford,  Connecticut,  8th  October,  1833  ;  graduated  at  Yale 
University,  1853.  Author  of  Poems,  Lyric  and  Idyllic  (New 
York,  1860) ;  Alice  of  Monmouth,  an  Idyl  of  the  Great  War, 
and  other  Poems  (New  York,  1864)  ;  The  Blameless  Prince,  and 
other  Poems  (Boston,  1869)  ;  Victorian  Poets  (Boston,  1875, 
and  London,  1875) ;  Poets  of  America  (Boston,  1886,  and 
London,  1886)  ;  Lyrics  and  Idylls,  with  other  Poems  (London, 
1879)  ;  Hawthorne  and  other  Poems  (Boston,  1877)  ;  Poetical 
Works  (Boston,  1873,  and  subsequently  with  additions).  Edited 
the  Poems  of  Austin  Dobson,  with  an  introduction  (New 
York,  1880) ;  Is  editing,  with  Ellen  Mackay  Hutchinson,  A 
Library  of  American  Literature  (New  York,  1888-90.)  The 
poems  quoted  by  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
Boston,  are  from  the  Collected  Edition  of  his  Poems,  published 
by  that  firm.] 

PAN  IN  WALL  STREET. 

JUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations ; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations ; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple, — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamour, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer  ; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 

I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 
At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 

Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

'Twas  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty  ! 
The  demi-god  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, — to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head ; 

But — hidden  thus — there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting  ; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  «hanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted ; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley ; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list, — 

A  boxer  uSSgon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  15 

A  cne-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng, — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  fauns  began  to  caper  : 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper ; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her, — 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands, — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 

So  thought  I, — but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demi-god, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead  ! " — and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways  :  — and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 
1867. 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


TO U JOURS  AMOUR. 

PRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair ; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  ! "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 

"  I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember  : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I !  " 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  \ 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ! 

"  Ah  ! "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 
"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I ! " 
1867. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  17 


11  THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY." 

COULD  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 

Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low,- 
Ah,  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil, 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go  1 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us, — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear  ] 

Were  we  quite  sure 

To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only, — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 
Who  would  endure? 


SONG  FROM  A  DRAMA. 

The  souls  which  are  one  without  knowing  it,  and  which  can 
approach  no  nearer  by  ever  so  close  an  embrace  than  they 
ever  eternally  are,  pine  for  a  blending  which  can  never  be 
theirs  so  long  as  they  remain  distinct  individuals." — EDOUABD 
VON  HARTMANN.] 

THOU  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word ; 

Close,  close  in  my  arms  thou  art  clinging ; 

Alone  for  my  ear  thou  art  singing 
A  song  which  no  stranger  hath  heard  : 
But  afar  from  me  yet,  like  a  bird, 
Thy  soul,  in  some  region  unstirred, 

On  its  mystical  circuit  is  winging. 
B 


1 8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Thou  art  mine,  I  have  made  thee  mine  own ; 
Henceforth  we  are  mingled  forever  : 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain,  I  endeavour — 

Though  round  thee  my  garlands  are  thrown, 

And  thou  yieldest  thy  lips  and  thy  zone — 

To  master  the  spell  that  alone 
My  hold  on  thy  being  can  sever. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  come  unto  me ! 
But  thy  soul,  when  I  strive  to  be  near  it — 
The  innermost  fold  of  thy  spirit — 
Is  as  far  from  my  grasp,  is  as  free, 
As  the  stars  from  the  mountain-tops  be, 
As  the  pearl,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

From  the  portionless  king  that  would  wear  it. 
1873. 


THE  DISCOVERED. 

I  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 
Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together  ! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer,  * 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  roll. 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 
Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 

Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 
With  this  command : 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  19 

"  Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover  ! 
Thou  must  take  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 
Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 

How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 
What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound  1 
Would  that  he  might  return  ! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush  !  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 
To  lay  beside  the  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no  !  not  so  ! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  conies  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 
Of  climes  his  elders  do  not  know. 
He  has  more  learning  than  appears 
On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thousand  years, 
More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 
Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought ; 
He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare, — 
What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 
What  is  their  guise  and  speech 
In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach, — 

And  his  eyes  behold 

Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to  mortal  hearers  told. 
1877. 


20  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


THE  DEATH  OF  BRYANT. 

How  was  it  then  with  Nature  when  the  soul 
Of  her  own  poet  heard  a  voice  which  came 
From  out  the  void,  "  Thou  art  no  longer  lent 
To  Earth  !  "  when  that  incarnate  spirit,  blent 
With  the  abiding  force  of  waves  that  roll, 
Wind-cradled  vapours,  circling  stars  that  flame, 

She  did  recall  1     How  went 
His  antique  shade,  beaconed  upon  its  way 
Through  the  still  aisles  of  night  to  universal  day  ? 

Her  voice  it  was,  her  sovereign  voice,  which  bade 

The  earth  resolve  his  elemental  mould ; 
And  once  more  came  her  summons  :   "  Long,  too  long, 
Thou  lingerest,  and  charmest  with  thy  song  ! 
Return  I  return  !  "     Thus  Nature  spoke,  and  made 
Her  sign ;  and  forthwith  on  the  minstrel  old 

An  arrow,  bright  and  strong, 
Fell  from  the  bent  bow  of  the  answering  Sun, 
Who  cried,  "  The  song  is  closed,  the  invocation  done  !  " 

But  not  as  for  those  youths  dead  ere  their  prime, 

New-entered  on  their  music's  high  domain, 
Then  snatched  away,  did  all  things  sorrow  own  : 
No  utterance  now  like  that  sad  sweetest  tone 
When  Bion  died,  and  the  Sicilian  rhyme 

Bewailed  ;  no  sobbing  of  the  reeds  that  plain, 

Rehearsing  some  last  moan 
Of  Lycidas ;  no  strains  which  skyward  swell 
For  Adonais  still,  and  still  for  Astrophel ! 

The  Muses  wept  not  for  him  as  for  those 

Of  whom  each  vanished  like  a  beauteous  star 
Quenched  ere  the  shining  midwatch  of  the  night ; 
The  greenwood  Nymphs  mourned  not  his  lost  delight, 
Nor  Echo,  hidden  in  the  tangled  close, 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  21 

Grieved  that  she  could  not  mimic  him  afar. 

He  ceased  not  from  our  sight 
Like  him  who,  in  the  first  glad  flight  of  Spring, 
Fell  as  an  eagle  pierced  with  shafts  from  his  own  wing. 

This  was  not  Thyrsis  !  no,  the  minstrel  lone 
And  reverend,  the  woodland  singer  hoar, 
Who  was  dear  Nature's  nursling,  and  the  priest 
Whom  most  she  loved ;  nor  had  his  office  ceased 
But  for  her  mandate  :   "  Seek  again  thine  own ; 
The  walks  of  men  shall  draw  thy  steps  no  more ! " 

Softly,  as  from  a  feast 
The  guest  departs  that  hears  a  low  recall, 
He  went,  and  left  behind  his  harp  and  coronal. 

"  Return  !  "  she  cried,  "  unto  thine  own  return  ! 

Too  long  the  pilgrimage ;  too  long  the  dream 
In  which,  lest  thou  shouldst  be  companionless, 
Unto  the  oracles  thou  hadst  access, — 
The  sacred  groves  that  with  my  presence  yearn." 

The  voice  was  heard  by  mountain,  dell,  and  stream, 

Meadow  and  wilderness, — 
All  fair  things  vestured  by  the  changing  year, 
Which  now  awoke  in  joy  to  welcome  one  most  dear. 

"  He  comes  !  "  declared  the  unseen  ones  that  haunt 

The  dark  recesses,  the  infinitude 
Of  whispering  old  oaks  and  soughing  pines. 
"He  comes!"  the  warders  of  the  forest  shrines 
Sang  joyously,  "  His  spirit  ministrant 

Henceforth  with  us  shall  walk  the  underwood, 

Till  mortal  ear  divines 
Its  music  added  to  our  choral  hymn, 
Rising  and  falling  far  through  archways  deep  and  dim  !  " 

The  orchard  fields,  the  hill-side  pastures  green, 
Put  gladness  on  ;  the  rippling  harvest-wave 
Ran  like  a  smile,  as  if  a  moment  there 
His  shadow  poised  in  the  midsummer  air 
Above ;  the  cataract  took  a  pearly  sheen 


22  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Even  as  it  leapt ;  the  winding  river  gave 

A  sound  of  welcome  where 
He  came,  and  trembled,  far  as  to  the  sea 
It  moves  from  rock-ribbed  heights  where  its  dark  foun 
tains  be. 

His  presence  brooded  on  the  rolling  plain, 

And  on  the  lake  there  fell  a  sudden  calm, — 
His  own  tranquillity ;  the  mountain  bowed 
Its  head,  and  felt  the  coolness  of  a  cloud, 
And  murmured,  "  He  is  passing  I "  and  again 

Through  all  its  firs  the  wind  swept  like  a  psalm ; 

Its  eagles,  thunder-browed, 

In  that  mist-moulded  shape  their  kinsman  knew, 
And  circled  high,  and  in  his  mantle  soared  from  view. 

So  drew  he  to  the  living  veil,  which  hung 

Of  old  above  the  deep's  unimaged  face, 
And  sought  his  own.     Henceforward  he  is  free 
Of  vassalage  to  that  mortality 
Which  men  have  given  a  sepulchre  among 

The  pathways  of  their  kind, — a  resting-place 

Where,  bending  one  great  knee, 
Knelt  the  proud  mother  of  a  mighty  land 
In  tenderness,  and  came  anon  a  plumed  band. 

Came  one  by  one  the  Seasons,  meetly  drest, 

To  sentinel  the  relics  of  their  seer. 
First  Spring — upon  whose  head  a  wreath  was  set 
Of  wind-flowers  and  the  yellow  violet — 
Advanced.     Then  Summer  led  his  loveliest 

Of  months,  one  ever  to  the  minstrel  dear 

(Her  sweet  eyes  dewy  wet), 

June,  and  her  sisters,  whose  brown  hands  entwine 
The  brier-rose  and  the  bee-haunted  columbine. 

Next,  Autumn,  like  a  monarch  sad  of  heart, 

Came,  tended  by  his  melancholy  days. 
Purple  he  wore,  and  bore  a  golden  rod, 
His  sceptre ;  and  let  fall  upon  the  sod 
A  lone  fringed-genliaii  ere  he  would  depart. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  23 

Scarce  had  his  train  gone  darkling  down  the  ways 

When  Winter  thither  trod, — 
Winter,  with  beard  and  raiment  blown  before, 
That  was  so  seeming  like  our  poet  old  and  hoar. 

What  forms  are  these  amid  the  pageant  fair 

Harping  with  hands  that  falter  ?     What  sad  throng  ? 
They  wait  in  vain,  a  mournful  brotherhood, 
And  listen  where  their  laurelled  elder  stood 
For  some  last  music  fallen  through  the  air. 

"  What  cold,  thiu  atmosphere  now  hears  thy  song  1 " 

They  ask,  and  long  have  wooed 

The  woods  and  waves  that  knew  him,  but  can  learn 
Naught    save    the    hollow,     haunting    cry,    "  Return ! 
return  I " 

1878. 


PROVENCAL    LOVERS. 

AUCASSIN    AND    NiCOLETTE. 

WITHIN  the  garden  of  Beaucaire 

He  met  her  by  a  secret  stair, 

The  night  was  centuries  ago. 
Said  Aucassin,  "  My  love,  my  pet, 
These  old  confessors  vex  me  so  ! 
They  threaten  all  the  pains  of  hell 
Unless  I  give  you  up,  ma  belle ; " — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  Now,  who  should  there  in  heaven  be 
To  fill  your  place,  ma  tres-douce  mie  1 
To  reach  that  spot  I  little  care ! 
There  all  the  droning  priests  are  met  ;— 
All  the  old  cripples,  too,  are  there 
That  unto  shrines  and  altars  cling 
To  filch  the  Peter-pence  we  bring  ;  " — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 


24  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"  There  are  the  barefoot  monks  and  friars 
With  gowns  well-tattered  by  the  briars, 
The  saints  who  lift  their  eyes  and  whine  : 
I  like  them  not — a  starveling  set ! 
Who'd  care  with  folk  like  these  to  dine  1 
The  other  road  'twere  just  as  well 
That  you  and  I  should  take,  ma  belle  ! " — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  To  purgatory  I  would  go 
With  pleasant  comrades  whom  we  know, 
Fair  scholars,  minstrels,  lusty  knights 
Whose  deeds  the  land  will  not  forget, 
The  captains  of  a  hundred  tights, 
The  men  of  valor  and  degree  : 
We'll  join  that  gallant  company," — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  There,  too,  are  jousts  and  joyance  rare, 
And  beauteous  ladies  debonair, 
The  pretty  dames,  the  merry  brides, 
Who  with  their  wedded  lords  coquette 
And  have  a  friend  or  two  besides, — 
And  all  in  gold  and  trappings  gay, 
With  furs,  and  crests  in  vair  and  gray," — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

"  Sweet  players  on  the  cithern  strings, 
And  they  who  roam  the  world  like  kings, 
Are  gathered  there,  so  blithe  and  free ! 
Pardie  !  I'd  join  them  now,  my  pet, 
If  you  went  also,  ma  douce  mie  ! 
The  joys  of  heaven  I'd  forego 
To  have  you  with  me  there  below," — 
Said  Aucassin  to  Nicolette. 

1878. 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  25 


THE  HAND  OF  LINCOLN. 

LOOK  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold ; 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was, — how  large  of  mould 

The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  ploughman's  share, 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 

This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 

The  axe — since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son — and  made  the  forest  ring, 

And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 

Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swnyed. 

No  courtier's,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute ; 

A  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute  ! 

The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong, 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch ; 

Yet,  lo  !  the  marks  their  lines  along 
Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 

For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years  ; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas — and  the  tears. 

Again  I  see  the  patient  brow 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press ; 
And  now  'tis  furrowed  deep,  and  now 

Made  smooth  witli  hope  and  tenderness. 


26  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  something  of  a  formless  grace 

This  moulded  outline  plays  about; 
A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 

Breathes  like  a  spirit,  in  and  out, — 

The  love  that  cast  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 

Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears  : 

A  type  that  Nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  all  a  people's  years. 

What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 

To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 
Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 

The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free  ! 
1888. 


THE   WORLD   WELL  LOST. 

THAT  year  ?     Yes,  doubtless  I  remember  still, — 
Though  why  take  count  of  every  wind  that  blows  ! 

'Twas  plain,  men  said,  that  Fortune  used  me  ill 
That  year, — the  self-same  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Crops  failed ;  wealth  took  a  flight ;  house,  treasure,  land, 
Slipped  from  my  hold — thus  Plenty  comes  and  goes. 

One  friend  I  had,  but  he,  too,  loosed  his  hand 
(Or  was  it  1 1)  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

There  was  a  war,  methinks ;  some  rumour,  too, 
Of  famine,  pestilence,  fire,  deluge,  snows ; — 

Things  went  awry.     My  rivals,  straight  in  view, 
Throve,  spite  of  all ;  but  I, — 1  met  with  Rose  ! 


EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN.  27 

That  year  my  white-faced  Alma  pined  and  died  : 
Some  trouble  vexed  her  quiet  heart, — who  knows  1 

Not  I,  who  scarcely  missed  her  from  my  side, 
Or  aught  else  gone,  the  year  I  met  with  Rose. 

Was  there  no  more  1     Yes,  that  year  life  began  : 
All  life  before  a  dream,  false  joys,  light  woes, — 

All  after-life  compressed  within  the  span 

Of  that  one  year, — the  year  I  met  with  Rose ! 

1883. 


LIBERTY  ENLIGHTENING  THE   WORLD. 
[THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE  IN  NEW  YORK  HARBOUR.] 

WARDER  at  ocean's  gate, 

Thy  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 
Like  one  the  skies  await 

When  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 
What  splendours  crown  thy  brow  ? 
What  bright  dread  angel  Thou, 

Dazzling  the  waves  before 
Thy  station  great  ? 

"  My  name  is  Liberty  ! 

From  out  a  mighty  land 
I  face  the  ancient  sea, 

I  lift  to  God  my  hand  ; 
By  day  in  Heaven's  light, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night, 

At  ocean's  gate  I  stand 
Nor  bend  the  knee. 

"  The  dark  Earth  lay  in  sleep, 
Her  children  crouched  forlorn, 

Ere  on  the  western  steep 
I  sprang  to  height,  reborn  : 


28  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Then  what  a  joyous  shout 
The  quickened  lands  gave  out, 
And  all  the  choir  of  morn 
Sang  anthems  deep. 

"  Beneath  yon  firmament, 
The  New  World  to  the  Old 

My  sword  and  summons  sent, 
My  starry  flag  unrolled  : 

The  Old  World's  hands  renew 

Their  strength  ;  the  form  ye  view 
Came  from  a  living  mould 
In  glory  blent. 

"  O  ye,  whose  broken  spars 
Tell  of  the  storms  ye  met, 

Enter  !  there  are  no  bars 
Across  your  pathway  set : 

Enter  at  Freedom's  porch, 

For  you  I  lift  my  torch, 
For  you  my  coronet 
Is  rayed  with  stars. 

"  But  ye  that  hither  draw 

To  desecrate  my  fee, 
Nor  yet  have  held  in  awe 

The  justice  that  makes  free, — 
A  vaunt,  ye  darkling  brood  ! 
By  Eight  my  house  hath  stood  : 

My  name  is  Liberty, 
My  throne  is  Law." 

O  wonderful  and  bright, 

Immortal  Freedom,  hail ! 
Front,  in  thy  fiery  might, 

The  midnight  and  the  gale  ; 
Undaunted  on  this  base 
Guard  well  thy  dwelling-place  : 
Till  the  last  sun  grow  pale 

Let  there  be  Light  ! 
1886, 


CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB.  29 


CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB  (JOHN  PAUL). 

[Born  at  Rouse's  Point,  New  York,  24th  January  1834.  Author  of 
Liffitli  Lank,  or  Lunacy,  a  Travesty  on  Charles  Reade's  Griffith 
Gaunt  (New  York,  1867)  ;  Parodies,  Prose  and  Verse  (1876)  ; 
Our  Friend  from  Victoria,  etc. ;  Vayrom  Verse  (Ticknor  & 
Company,  now  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Company,  Boston,  1889). 
The  poems  quoted  are  from  this  last  volume,  by  kind  permission 
of  the  firm.  ] 

LITTLE    MAMMA. 

WHY  is  it  the  children  don't  love  me 

As  they  do  Mamma? 
That  they  put  her  ever  above  me — 

"  Little  Mamma  ?  " 
I'm.  sure  I  do  all  that  I  can  do 
What  more  can  a  rather  big  man  do, 

Who  can't  be  Mamma ? 

Any  game  that  the  tyrants  suggest, 
"Logomachy" — which  I  detest — 
Doll-babies,  hop-scotch,  or  base-ball 
I'm  always  on  hand  at  the  call. 
When  Noah  and  the  others  embark, 
I'm  the  elephant  saved  in  the  ark. 
I  creep,  and  I  climb,  and  I  crawl — 
By  turns  am  the  animals  all. 

For  the  show  on  the  stair 

I  am  always  the  bear, 
The  Chimpanzee,  or  the  Kangaroo. 

It  is  never  "  Mamma," — 
Little  Mamma, — 
Won't  you  1 

My  umbrella's  the  pony,  if  any — 

None  ride  on  Mamma's  parasol ; 

I'm  supposed  to  have  always  the  penny 

For  bon-bons,  and  beggars,  and  all ; 

My  room  is  the  one  where  they  clatter — 

I  am  reading,  or  writing,  what  matter ! 


30  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

My  knee  is  the  one  for  a  trot, 

My  foot  is  the  stirrups  for  Dot. 

If  his  fractions  get  into  a  snarl, 

Who  straightens  the  tangles  for  Karl? 

Who  bounds  Massachusetts  and  Maine, 

And  tries  to  "  bound  "  flimsy  old  Spain  1 

Why, 

It  is  I, 

Papa — 

Not  little  Mamma ! 

That  the  youngsters  are  ingrates,  don't  say. 

I  think  they  love  me — in  a  way — 

As  one  does  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

Any  curious,  cumbrous  affair 

That  one's  used  to  having  about, 

And  would  feel  rather  lonely  without — 

I  think  that  they  love  me,  I  say, 

In  a  sort  of  a  tolerant  way ; 

But  it's  plain  that  Papa 

Isn't  little  Mamma. 

Thus  when  twilight  comes  stealing  a-near 
When  things  in  the  firelight  look  queer, 
And  shadows  the  play-room  enwrap, 
They  never  climb  into  my  lap 
And  toy  with  my  head,  smooth  and  bare, 
As  they  do  with  Mamma's  shining  hair; 
Nor  feel  round  my  throat  and  my  chin 
For  dimples  to  put  fingers  in, — 
Nor  lock  my  neck  in  a  loving  vice 
And  say  they're  "mousies," — that's  mice — 
And  will  nibble  my  ears, 

Will  nibble  and  bite 

With  their  little  mice  teeth,  so  sharp  and  so  white 
If  I  do  not  kiss  them  this  very  minute — 
DoiiVwait-a-bit-but-at-once-begin-it 

Dear  little  Papa ! 
That's  what  they  say  and  do  to  Mamma. 


CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB.  31 

If  mildly  hinting,  I  quietly  say  that 
Kissing's  a  game  more  than  one  can  play  at, 
They  turn  up  at  once  those  innocent  eyes, 
And  I  suddenly  learn  to  my  great  surprise 

That  my  face  has  "prickles" — 

My  moustache  tickles. 

If  in  storming  their  camp  I  seize  a  pert  shaver, 
And  take  as  a  right,  what  was  asked  as  a  favour, 

It  is  "  Oh,  Papa, 

How  horrid  you  are — 

You  taste  exactly  like  a  cigar  !  " 

But  though  the  rebels  protest  and  pout 
And  make  a  pretence  of  driving  me  out, 
I  hold,  after  all,  a  main  redoubt, — 
Not  by  force  of  arms,  nor  the  force  of  will, 
But  the  power  of  love,  which  is  mightier  still. 
And  very  deep  in  their  hearts,  I  know, 
Under  the  saucy  and  petulant  "  Oh," 
The  doubtful  "  Yes,"  or  naughty  "  No," 
They  love  Papa. 

And  down  in  the  hearts  that  no  one  sees, 
Where  I  hold  my  feasts  and  my  jubilees, 
I  know  that  I  could  not  abate  one  jot 
Of  the  love  that  is  held  by  my  little  Dot 
Or  my  great  big  boy  for  their  little  Mamma, 
Though  out  in  the  cold  it  crowded  Papa. 
I  would  not  abate  it  the  tiniest  whit, 
And  am  not  jealous  the  least  little  bit ; 
For  I'll  tell  you  a  secret ;  come,  my  dears, 
And  I'll  whisper  it- — right-into-your-ears — 

I  too  love  Mamma  ! 

"  Little  Mamma  !  " 


32  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


WITH  A  NANTUCKET  SHELL. 

I  SEND  a  shell  from  the  ocean  beach  ; 

But  listen  thou  well,  for  my  shell  hath  speech. 

Hold  to  thine  ear, 

And  plain  thou'lt  hear 

Tales  of  ships 

That  were  lost  in  the  rips, 

Or  that  sunk  on  shoals 

Where  the  bell-buoy  tolls, 
And  ever  and  ever  its  iron  tongue  rolls 
In  a  ceaseless  lament  for  the  poor  lost  souls. 

And  a  song  of  the  sea 
Has  my  shell  for  thee ; 
The  melody  in  it 
Was  hummed  at  Wauwinet, 
And  caught  at  Coatue 
By  the  gull  that  flew 

Outside  to  the  ships  with  its  perishing  crew. 
But  the  white  wings  wave 
Where  none  may  save, 
And  there's  never  a  stone  to  mark  a  grave. 

See,  its  sad  heart  bleeds 

For  the  sailors'  needs, 

But  it  bleeds  again 

For  more  mortal  pain, 

More  sorrow  and  woe 

Than  is  theirs  who  go 
With  shuddering  eyes  and  whitening  lips 
Down  in  the  sea  in  their  shattered  ships. 

Thou  fearest  the  sea  1 
And  a  tyrant  is  he, — 
A  tyrant  as  cruel  as  tyrant  may  be ; 
But  though  winds  fierce  blow, 
And  the  rocks  lie  low, 


CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB.  33 

And  the  coast  be  lee, 
This  I  say  to  thee ; 

Of  Christian  souls  more  have  been  wrecked  on  shore 
Than  ever  were  lost  at  sea  ! 


THE  KING  AND  THE  POPE. 

THE  King  and  the  Pope  together 

Have  written  a  letter  to  me  : 

It  is  signed  with  a  golden  sceptre, 

It  is  sealed  with  a  golden  key. 

The  King  wants  me  out  of  his  eyesight 

The  Pope  wants  me  out  of  his  See. 

The  King  and  the  Pope  together 
Have  a  hundred  acres  of  land  : 
I  do  not  own  the  foot  of  ground 
On  which  my  two  feet  stand  : 
But  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  kingdom 
Strolls  with  me  on  the  sand. 

The  King  has  a  hundred  yeomen 
Who  will  fight  for  him  to-day  : 
The  Pope  has  priests  and  bishops 
Who  for  his  soul  will  pray  : 
I  have  only  one  true  sweetheart, 
But  she'll  kiss  me  when  I  say. 

The  King  is  served  at  his  table 

By  ladies  of  high  degree  : 

The  Pope  has  never  a  true  love, 

So  a  cardinal  pours  his  tea : 

No  ladies  stand  round  me  in  waiting, 

But  my  sweetheart  sits  by  me. 

And  the  King  with  his  golden  sceptre, 
The  Pope  with  Saint  Peter's  key, 
Can  never  unlock  the  one  little  heart 
That  is  opened  only  to  me. 
c 


34  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  I  am  the  Lord  of  a  Realm, 
And  I  am  Pope  of  a  See ; 
Indeed,  I'm  supreme  in  the  kingdom 
That  is  sitting  just  now  on  my  knee ! 


GEORGE  ARNOLD. 

[Born  a*  New  York  City,  24th  Jane  1834,  died  at  Strawberry  Farms, 
Hew  Jersey,  3d  November  1865.  Author  of  ^M'Arone"  Papers, 
The.  JoUy  (Md  Pedayoyue,  and  other  Poems.  The  poems  quoted 
are  by  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  k  Co.] 

HERE, 

With  my  beer 
I  sit 
While  golden  moments  Ait : 

Alas! 

They  pass 
Unheeded  by : 
And,  as  they  fly, 
I 
Being  dry, 

Sit,  idly  sipping  here 

My  beer. 

O  finer  far 

Than  fame,  or  riches  rare, 

The  graceful  smoke-wreaths  of  this  cigar  • 

Why 

Should  I 

Weep,  wail,  or  sigh  ! 

What  if  luck  has  passed  me  by  f 
What  if  my  hopes  are  dead — 
My  pleasures  fled  1 


GEORGE  ARNOLD.  35 

Have  I  not  still 

My  fill 

Of  right  good  cheer, — 
Cigars  and  beer  f 

Go,  whining  youth, 
Forsooth! 

Go,  weep  and  wail, 

Sigh  and  grow  pale, 

Weave  melancholy  rhymes 

On  the  old  times, 

Whose  joys  like  shadowy  ghosts  appear, — 
But  leave  to  me  my  beer ! 

Gold  is  dross, — 

Love  is  loss, — 

So,  if  I  gulp  my  sorrows  down 
Of  see  them  drown 
In  foamy  draughts  of  old  nut-brown, 
Then  do  I  wear  the  crown, 

Without  a  cross  ! 


A  SUNSET  FANTASIE. 

WHEN  the  son  sets  over  the  bay, 

And  sweeping  shadows  solemnly  lie 
On  its  mottled  surface  of  azure  and  grey, 

And  the  night-winds  sigh, — 
Come,  O  Leonore,  brown-eyed  one, 
To  the  cloudy  realms  of  the  setting  sun ! 
Where  crimson  crag,  and  silvery  steep, 
And  amaranth  rift^  and  purple  deep, 
Look  dimly  soft  as  the  sunset  pales, 
Like  the  shadowy  cities  of  ancient  tales. 

As  Egypt's  queen  went  floating  along 
To  her  lover,  when  all  the  orient  air 

Was  laden  with  echoes  of  dreamy  song, 
And  the  plash  of  oars  and  perfumes  rare, 


36  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

So  will  we  float, 
In  a  golden  boat, 
On  velvet  cushions  soft  and  wide  ; 

I  and  my  love,  the  onyx-eyed, 
Will  watch  the  twilight  radiance  fail, — 
Cheek  by  cheek  and  side  by  side, — 

And  our  mingled  breath,  O  Leonore, 
Shall  fan  the  silken  sail, 

To  the  shining  line  of  that  faery  strand 

Where  sky  is  water  and  cloud  is  land, — 

The  wonderful  sunset  shore  ! 

On  those  dim  headlands,  here  and  there, 
The  lofty  glacier-peaks  between, 

Through  the  purple  haze  of  the  twilight  air, 
The  tremulous  glow  of  a  star  is  seen. 

There  let  us  dwell,  O  Leonore, 

Free  from  the  griefs  that  haunt  us  here, 
Knowing  no  frown,  nor  sigh,  nor  tear  ; 

There  let  us  bide  for  evermore, 

Happy  for  aye  in  the  sunset  sphere  ! 

In  the  mountainous  cloudland,  far  away, 

Behold,  a  glittering  chasm  gleams. 
O,  let  us  cross  the  heaving  bay, 
To  that  land  of  love  and  dreams  ! 

There  would  I  lie,  in  a  misty  bower, 
Tasting  the  nectar  of  thy  lip, 
Sweet  as  the  honeyed  dews  that  drip 

From  the  budding  lotos-flower  ! 
Dip  the  oar  and  spread  the  sail 
For  shining  peak  and  shadowy  vale  ! 
Fill,  O  sail,  and  plash,  O  oar, 
For  the  wonderful  sunset  shore  ! 


JOHN  JAMES  PI  A  TT.  37 


JOHN  JAMES  PIATT. 

[Born  in  James'  Mill  (now  Milton),  Indiana,  1st  March  1835. 
Author  of  Poems  in  Sunshine  and  Firelight  (Cincinnati,  1886) ; 
Western  Windows,  and  other  Poems  (1871)  ;  Poems  of  House 
and  Home  (Boston,  1878)  ;  The  Union  of  American  Poetry  and 
Art  (Cincinnati,  1880-1)  ;  Idylls  and  Lyrics  of  the  Ohio  Valley 
(London,  1884;  Boston,  1888);  and  At  the  Holy  Well;  a 
Handful  of  New  Verses  (Dublin,  1887).  The  poems  quoted  are 
by  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


A  WAKE  IN  DARKNESS. 

MOTHER,  if  I  could  cry  from  out  the  night 
And  you  could  come  (Oh,  tearful  memory  !) 
How  softly  close  !  to  soothe  and  comfort  me, 
As  when  a  child  awaken'd  with  affright, 
My  lips  again  as  weak  and  helpless  quite, 
Would  call  you,  call  you,  sharp  and  plaintively — 
O  vain,  vain,  vain  !     Your  face  I  could  not  see ; 
Your  voice  no  more  would  bring  my  darkness  light, 
To  this  shut  room,  though  I  should  wail  and  weep, 
You  would  not  come  to  speak  one  brooding  word 
And  let  its  comfort  warm  me  into  sleep 
And  leave  me  dreaming  of  its  comfort  heard  : 
Though  all  the  night  to  morn  at  last  should  creep 
My  cry  would  fail,  your  answer  be  deferr'd. 
November,  1865. 


THE  BURIED  RING. 

ACROSS  the  door-step,  worn  and  old, 
The  new  bride,  joyous,  pass'd  to-day ; 

The  grey  rooms  show'd  an  artful  gold, 
All  words  were  light,  all  faces  gay. 


38  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Ah,  many  years  have  lived  and  died 
Since  she,  the  other  vanish'd  one, 

Into  that  door,  a  timid  bride, 

Bore  from  the  outer  world  the  sun. 

O  lily,  with  the  rose's  glow  ! 

O  rose  i'  the  lily's  garment  clad  ! — 
The  rooms  were  golden  long  ago, 

All  words  were  blithe,  all  faces  glad. 

She  wore  upon  her  hand  the  ring, 

Whose  frail  and  human  bond  is  gone — 

A  coffin  keeps  the  jealous  thing 
Radiant  in  shut  oblivion  : 

For  she,  (beloved,  who  loved  so  well,) 
In  the  last  tremors  of  her  breath, 

Whisper'd  of  bands  impossible — 

"  She  would  not  give  her  ring  to  Death." 

But  he,  who  holds  a  newer  face 

Close  to  his  breast  with  eager  glow, 

Has  he  forgotten  her  embrace, 
The  first  shy  maiden's,  long  ago  1 

Lo,  in  a  ghostly  dream  of  night, 
A  vision,  over  him  she  stands, 

Her  mortal  face  in  heavenlier  light, 

With  speechless  blame  but  blessing  hands 

And,  smiling  mortal  sorrow's  pain 
Into  immortal  peace  more  deep, 

She  gives  him  back  her  ring  again — 
The  new  bride  kisses  him  from  sleep  ! 


JOHN  JA  MRS  PI  A  TT.  39 


APART. 

AT  sea  are  tossing  ships ; 

On  shore  are  dreaming  shells, 
And  the  waiting  heart  and  the  loving  lips, 

Blossoms  and  bridal  bells. 

At  sea  are  sails  a-gleam  ; 

On  shore  are  longing  eyes, 
And  the  far  horizon's  haunting  dream 

Of  ships  that  sail  the  skies. 

At  sea  are  masts  that  rise 

Like  spectres  from  the  deep  ; 
On  shore  are  the  ghosts  of  drowning  cries 

That  cross  the  waves  of  sleep. 

At  sea  are  wrecks  a-strand ; 

On  shore  are  shells  that  moan, 
Old  anchors  buried  in  barren  sand, 

Sea-mist  and  dreams  alone. 


THE  MO  WER  IN  OHIO. 
[JUNE,  MDCCCLXIV.] 

THE  bees  in  the  clover  are  making  honey,   and  I  am 

making  my  hay : 
The  air  is  fresh,  I  seem  to  draw  a  young  man's  breath 

to-day. 

The  bees  and  I  are  alone  in  the  grass  :  the  air  is  so  very 

still 
I  hear  the  dam,  so  loud,  that  shines  beyond  the  sullen 

mill. 


40  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Yes,  the  air  is  so  still  that  I  hear  almost  the  sounds  I 

can  not  hear — 
That,  when  no  other  sound  is  plain,  ring  in  my  empty 

ear: 

The  chime  of  striking  scythes,  the  fall  of  the  heavy  swaths 

— they  sweep — 
They  ring  about  me,  resting,  when  I  waver  half  asleep ; 

So  still,  I  am  not  sure  if  a  cloud,  low  down,  unseen  there 

be, 
Or  if  something  brings  a  rumour  home  of  the  cannon  so 

far  from  me : 

Far  away  in  Virginia,  where  Joseph  and  Grant,  I  know, 
Will  tell  them  what  I  meant  when  first  I  had  my  mowers 
go! 

Joseph,  he  is  my  eldest  one,  the  only  boy  of  my  three, 
Whose  shadow  can  darken  my  door  again,  and  lighten 
my  heart  for  me. 

Joseph,  he  is  my  eldest — how  his  scythe  was  striking 
ahead  ! 

William  was  better  at  shorter  heats,  but  Jo  in  the  long- 
run  led. 

William,  he  was  my  youngest ;  John,  between  them,  I 

somehow  see, 
When  my  eyes  are  shut,  with  a  little  board  at  his  head 

in  Tennessee. 

But  William  came  home  one  morning  early,  from  Gettys 
burg,  last  July, 

(The  mowing  was  over  already,  although  the  only  mower 
was  I :) 

William,  my  captain,  came  home  for  good  to  his  mother ; 

and  I'll  be  bound 
We  were  proud  and  cried  to  see  the  flag  that  wrapt  his 

coffin  around ; 


JOHN  JAMES  PI  A  TT.  41 

For  a  company  from  the  town  came  up  ten  miles  with 

music  and  gun  : 
It  seemed  his  country  claimed  him  then — as  well  as  his 

mother — her  son. 

But  Joseph  is  yonder  with   Grant  to-day,  a  thousand 

miles  or  near, 
And  only  the  bees  are  abroad  at  work  with  me  in  the 

clover  here. 

Was  it  a  murmur  of  thunder  I  heard  that  hummed  again 

in  the  air? 
Yet,  may  be,  the  cannon  are  sounding  now  their  Onward 

to  Richmond  there. 

But  under  the  beech  by  the  orchard,  at  noon,  I  sat  an 

hour  it  would  seem — 
It  may  be  I  slept,  a  minute,   too,   or  wavered  into  a 

dream. 

For  I  saw  my  boys,  across  the  field,  by  the  flashes  as 

they  went, 
Tramping  a  steady  tramp  as  of  old,  with  the  strength  in 

their  arms  unspent ; 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,  they  moved  like  soldiers  that 

march  to  the  beat 
Of  music  that  seems,  a  part  of  themselves,  to  rise  and 

fall  with  their  feet ; 

Tramping  a  steady  tramp,    they   came   with  flashes  of 

silver  that  shone, 
Every  step,  from  their  scythes  that  rang  as  if  they  needed 

the  stone — 

(The  field  is  wide  and  heavy  with  grass) — and,  coming 

toward  me,  they  beamed 
With  a  shine  of  light  in  theii-  faces  at  once,  and — surely 

I  must  have  dreamed  ! 


42  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  I  sat  alone  in  the  clover-field,  the  bees  were  working 

ahead. 
There  were  three  in  my  vision — remember,  old  man  :  and 

what  if  Joseph  were  dead  ! 

But  I  hope  that  he  and  Grant  (the  flag  above  them  both, 

to  boot,) 
Will  go  into  Richmond  together,  no  matter  which  is 

ahead  or  afoot ! 

Meantime,  alone  at  the  mowing  here — an  old  man  some 
what  grey — 

I  must  stay  at  home  as  long  as  I  can,  making,  myself, 
the  hay. 

And  so  another  round — the  quail  in  the  orchard  whistles 

blithe ; — 
But  first  I'll  drink  at  the  spring  below,  and  whet  again 

my  scythe. 


THE  BLACKBERRY  FARM. 

NATURE  gives  with  freest  hands 
Richest  gifts  to  poorest  lands. 
When  the  lord  has  sown  his  last 
And  his  field's  to  desert  passed, 
She  begins  to  claim  her  own, 
And — instead  of  harvests  flown, 
Sunburnt  sheaves  and  golden  ears 
Sends  her  hardier  pioneers  : 
Barbarous  brambles,  outlawed  seeds, 
The  first  families  of  weeds 
Fearing  neither  sun  nor  wind, 
With  the  flowers  of  their  kind 
(Outcasts  of  the  garden-bound), 
Colonise  the  expended  ground, 
Using  (none  her  right  gainsay) 
Confiscations  of  decay  :  — 


JOHN  JAMES  PI  A  TT.  43 

Thus  she  clothes  the  barren  place, 
Old  disgrace,  with  newer  grace. 
Title-deeds,  which  cover  lands 
Ruled  and  reaped  by  buried  hands, 
She — disowning  owners  old, 
Scorning  their  "  to  have  and  hold  " — 
Takes  herself;  the  mouldering  fence 
Hides  with  her  munificence ; 
O'er  the  crumbled  gatepost  twines 
Her  proprietary  vines ; 
On  the  doorstep  of  the  house 
Writes  in  moss  "Anonymous," 
And,  that  beast  and  bird  may  see, 

"  This  is  Public  property; " 
To  the  bramble  makes  the  sun 
Bearer  of  profusion : 

Blossom-odours  breathe  in  June 

Promise  of  her  later  boon, 

And  in  August's  brazen  heat 

Grows  the  prophecy  complete  ; — 

Lo,  her  largess  glistens  bright, 

Blackness  diamonded  with  light ! 

Then,  behold,  she  welcomes  all 

To  her  annual  festival : 

"  Mine  the  fruit  but  yours  as  well," 

Speaks  the  Mother  Miracle  ; 

"  Rich  and  poor  are  welcome  ;  come, 

Make  to-day  millennium 

In  my  garden  of  the  sun : 

Black  and  white  to  me  are  one. 

This  my  freehold  use  content — 

Here  no  landlord  rides  for  rent ; 

I  proclaim  my  jubilee, 

In  my  Black  Republic,  free. 

"  Come,"  she  beckons  ;  "  enter,  through 

Gates  of  gossamer,  doors  of  dew 

(Lit  with  summer's  tropic  fire), 

My  Liberia  of  the  brier  " 


44  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


CON  FLA  GRA  TION. 


PLATING  with  little  children  on  the  hearth, 

An  hour  ago — 

With  fitful  mirth 

Their  gentle  eyes  were  lighted — lo  !  the  Flame, 
Like  a  lithe  Fairy,  to  their  fancies  came, 

Whispering  whispers  low ! 

II. 

All  sleep.     The  harmless  Fairy  wakes  and  chases 
Across  the  floor,  and  from  the  darkness  crawls, 

Clambering  up  the  walls, 
And  looks  into  the  children's  sleeping  faces, 

Now  through  the  window  shines 

On  the  dew-burden'd- vines ; 

Then,  Fiend-like,  leaps, 
Aloof, 

Upon  the  roof  ! 

The  city  sleeps. 
It  waves  its  myriad  hands, 
And  laughs  and  dances,  a  maniac  lost  from  bands  ! 

in. 

The  scared  bells  ring  ! — 
All  sleepers,  wakening,  start 

With  fluttering  heart ! 
Look  !  the  gigantic  Thing 
The  unimprison'd  Fury,  tosses  high 
Bloodiest  arms  against  the  frighten'd  sky, 
O'er  streets  that  glare  with  men  !   Midnight  gives  way 

To  the  flame-cradled  day  ! 
White  Fear  and  red  Confusion  mingle  cries  : 
"Arise  !  arise  ! 
The  city  is  in  flame  ! " 


JOHN  JAMES  PIA  TT.  45 

The  hearth-born  Terror  keeps  its  hurrying  march, 
The  world  aghast  before,  the  clouds  its  victory-arch, 
(The  Lares  on  their  altars  die, 

The  wives  and  children  fly  :) 

And  ashes  are  its  fame  ! 


THE  NE  W  HOUSE. 


THE    BUILDING. 

A  STRANGER  in  the  village  street, 
Shines  the  new  house  in  morning  light — 
No  quick  enchantment  sprung  by  night, 
A  vision  for  the  sun,  complete, 
Like  that  the  Arabian  story  shows  : 
For  the  slow  toil  of  hours  and  days, 
With  steadfast  hands  and  stalwart  blows, 
Wrought  with  the  builder's  brain,  to  raise 
This  temple,  yet  unconsecrate, 
Of  Home  and  Household  Deities, 
The  stronghold  of  Domestic  Peace, 
Familiar  Church  and  private  State  ! 
The  builder  he  has  watch'd  it  long, 
Since  first  the  pencil-plan  was  made 
And  the  deep  under-stone  was  laid, 
The  fast  foundation  firm  and  strong, 
Through  slow  processes,  day  by  day, 
While  floors  were  fix'd  and  rafters  hung 
Till  now — the  workmen  pass'd  away — 
He  wakes  from  slumber,  blithe  and  young 
Behold,  at  last,  his  work  is  done — 
His  house-in-air  no  longer  dream, 
Illumined  by  the  morning  gleam, 
Transfigured  by  the  rising  sun  ! 


46  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

II. 

THE    DWELLERS. 

Come  at  Morning — you  shall  see 
What  a  blissful  company 
Enter  in  the  open  door  ! 
Children,  children,  evermore, 
Dancing,  singing,  laughing,  play, 
Making  merry  holiday — 
Happy  faces,  garments  gay  ! — 
Introducing  Fairy-land, 
Back  to  barren  desert  sand 
Bringing  flowers  flown  from  earth  : 
The  long  coming-in  of  Birth  ! 

Come  at  Midnight — you  shall  see 
What  a  ghostly  company 
Pass  from  out  the  open  door  ! 
Old  men,  old  men,  evermore, 
Wrinkled,  dusty,  travel-spent, 
Burden-bearers  bow'd  and  bent. 
Songless,  sighing,  halting,  slow, 
In  funereal  garments  go, 
But,  upon  the  threshold,  lo  ! 
Sudden  children,  vanish  there, 
Lost  in  light  and  lifting  air, 
Beautiful  with  blissful  breath  : 
The  long  going-forth  of  Death  ! 


A  SONG  OF  CONTENT. 

THE  eagle  nestles  near  the  sun ; 

The  dove's  low  nest  for  me  ! — 
The  eagle's  on  the  crag ;  sweet  one, 

The  dove's  in  our  green  tree ! 
For  hearts  that  beat  like  thine  and  mine 

Heaven  blesses  humble  earth  ; — 
The  angels  of  our  Heaven  shall  shine 

The  angels  of  our  Hearth  ! 


JOHN  JAMES  PI  ATT.  47 


FIRES  IN  ILLINOIS. 

How  bright  this  weird  autumnal  eve — 
While  the  wild  twilight  clings  around, 

Clothing  the  grasses  everywhere, 
With  scarce  a  dream  of  sound  ! 

The  high  horizon's  northern  line, 
With  many  a  silent-leaping  spire, 

Seems  a  dark  shore — a  sea  of  flame — 
Quick,  crawling  waves  of  fire  ! 

I  stand  in  dusky  solitude, 

October  breathing  low  and  chill, 
And  watch  the  far-off  blaze  that  leaps 
.  At  the  wind's  wayward  will. 

These  boundless  fields,  behold,  once  more, 
Sea-like  in  vanished  summers  stir  ; 

From  vanished  autumns  comes  the  Fire — 
A  lone,  bright  harvester  ! 

I  see  wide  terror  lit  before — 

Wild  steeds,  fierce  herds  of  bison  here; 
And,  blown  before  the  flying  flames, 

The  flying-footed  deer ! 

Long  trains  (with  shaken  bells,  that  move 
Along  red  twilights  sinking  slow) 

Whose  wheels  grew  weary  on  their  way 
Far  westward,  long  ago  : 

Lone  waggons  bivouacked  in  the  blaze, 
That,  long  ago,  streamed  wildly  past ; 

Faces,  from  that  bright  solitude, 
In  the  hot  gleam  aghast ! 

A  glare  of  faces  like  a  dream, 

No  history  after  or  before, 
Inside  the  horizon  with  the  flames, 

The  flames — nobody  more  ! 


48  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

That  vision  vanishes  in  me, 

Sudden  and  swift  and  fierce  and  bright ; 
Another  gentler  vision  fills 

The  solitude,  to-night : 

The  horizon  lightens  everywhere, 

The  sunshine  rocks  on  windy  maize ; — 

Hark,  everywhere  are  busy  men, 
And  children  at  their  plays  ! 

Far  church  spires  twinkle  at  the  sun, 
From  villages  of  quiet  born, 

And,  far  and  near,  and  everywhere, 
Homes  stand  amid  the  corn. 

No  longer,  driven  by  wind,  the  Fire 
Makes  all  the  vast  horizon  glow, 

But,  numberless  as  the  stars  above, 
The  windows  shine  below  ! 


WILLIAM  WINTER. 

[Born  at  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  15th  July  1836.  Author  of 
The  Convent,  and  other  Poems  (Boston  1854) ;  The  Queen's 
Domain,  and  other  Poems  (1858) ;  My  Witness ;  a  Book  of 
Verse  (1871) ;  Shakespeare's  England  (Edinburgh,  1886) :  and 
Wanderers — a  collected  volume  of  his  poems  published  (1889) 
by  David  Douglas  &  Co.,  Edinburgh,  and  Ticknor  &  Co., 
now  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  by  whose  kind  per 
mission  the  poems  below  quoted  are  given.] 

M  Y  QUEEN. 

HE  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold  ! 
I  would  not  have  thee  come  too  nigh  : 
The  sun's  gold  would  not  seem  pure  gold 
Unless  the  sun  were  in  the  sky: 
To  take  him  thence  and  chain  him  near 
Would  make  his  beauty  disappear. 


WILLIAM  WINTER.  49 

He  keeps  his  state, — do  them  keep  thine, 

And  shine  upon  me  from  afar  ! 

So  shall  I  bask  in  light  divine, 

That  falls  from  love's  own  guiding  star ; 

So  shall  thy  eminence  be  high, 

And  so  my  passion  shall  not  die. 

But  all  my  life  will  reach  its  hands 
Of  lofty  longing  toward  thy  face, 
And  be  as  one  who  speechless  stands 
In  rapture  at  some  perfect  grace  ! 
My  love,  my  hope,  my  all  will  be 
To  look  to  heaven  and  look  to  thee  ! 

Thy  eyes  will  be  the  heavenly  lights ; 
Thy  voice  the  gentle  summer  breeze, 
What  time  it  sways,  on  moonlit  nights, 
The  murmuring  tops  of  leafy  trees ; 
And  I  will  touch  thy  beauteous  form 
In  June's  red  roses,  rich  and  warm. 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  come  not  down 
From  that  pure  region  far  above ; 
But  keep  thy  throne  and  wear  thy  crown, 
Queen  of  my  heart  and  queen  of  love ! 
A  monarch  in  thy  realm  complete, 
And  I  a  monarch — at  thy  feet ! 


ADELAIDE  NEILSON. 
(Died  August  15,  1880.) 

AND  oh,  to  think  the  sun  can  shine, 
The  birds  can  sing,  the  flowers  can  bloom, 
And  she,  whose  soul  was  all  divine, 
Be  darkly  mouldering  in  the  tomb  : 


50  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

That  o'er  her  head  the  night  wind  sighs, 
And  the  sad  cypress  droops  and  moans ; 
That  night  has  veiled  her  glorious  eyes, 
And  silence  hushed  her  heavenly  tones : 

That  those  sweet  lips  no  more  can  smile, 
Nor  pity's  tender  shadows  chase, 
With  many  a  gentle,  child-like  wile, 
The  rippling  laughter  o'er  her  face  : 

That  dust  is  on  the  burnished  gold 
That  floated  round  her  royal  head  ; 
That  her  great  heart  is  dead  and  cold — 
Her  form  of  fire  and  beauty  dead  ! 

Roll  on,  grey  earth  and  shining  star, 
And  coldly  mock  our  dreams  of  bliss ; 
There  is  no  glory  left  to  mar, 
Nor  any  grief  so  black  as  this  ! 


DAVID  GRAY. 

[Born  at  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  8th  November  1836.  Came  to 
America  in  1849.  Died  at  Binghampton,  New  York,  18th 
March  1888.  His  poems,  essays,  letters  of  travel  and  autobio 
graphy,  have  been  collected  in  two  admirable  volumes  by  Mr 
J.  W.  Larned,  librarian  of  Buffalo.  The  poems  quoted  are 
given  by  kind  permission  of  Mrs  David  Gray  and  Mr  Larned.] 

TO  J.  H.  (Col.  John  Hay]. 

THE  happy  time  when  dreams  have  power  to  cheat 
Is  past,  dear  friend,  for  me.     As  in  old  days, 
So,  still,  at  times,  they  throng  their  ancient  ways 
And  trail  their  shining  robes  before  my  feet, 
Or  stand,  half-lifted  to  their  native  skies 
By  the  soft  oval  of  white  arms,  and  eyes 
Closing  on  looks  unutterably  sweet, 
Then  the  grim  Truth  beside  me  will  arise 
And  slay  them,  and  their  beauty  is  no  more, — 


DAVID  GRAY.  51 

No  more  their  beauty — saving  such  as  dies 
Into  the  marble  of  mute  lips,  or  flies 
With  the  swift  light  of  dying  smiles,  before 
The  eye  that  strains  to  watch  can  tell,  for  tears, 
How  passing  fair  it  shone — how  dusk  have  grown  the 
years. 


DIVIDED. 

THE  half-world's  width  divides  us ;  where  she  sits 
Noonday  has  broadened  o'er  the  prairied  West ; 
For  me,  beneath  an  alien  sky,  unblest, 
The  day  dies  and  the  bird  of  evening  flits. 

Nor  do  I  dream  that  in  her  happier  breast 

Stirs  thought  of  me.     Untroubled  beams  the  star, 

And  recks  not  of  the  drifting  mariner's  quest, 

Who,  for  dear  life,  may  seek  it  on  mid-sea, 

The  half- world's  width  divides  us ;  yet,  from  far — 

And  though  I  know  that  nearer  may  not  be 
In  all  the  years — yet  0  beloved,  to  thee 
Goes  out  my  heart,  and,  past  the  crimson  bar 
Of  sunset,  westward  yearns  away — away — 
And  dieth  towards  thee  with  the  dying  day  ! 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN  AND  HIS  CRE  W. 

TOLL  the  saintly  minster  bell, 

For  we  know  they're  now  at  rest  j 

Where  they  lie,  they  sleep  as  well 
As  in  kirkyard  old  and  blest. 


52  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Let  the  requiem  echo  free 

From  the  shores  of  England,  forth 

Over  leagues  of  angry  sea, 

Toward  the  silence  of  the  North. 

Half  a  score  of  years  or  more, 

They  were  phantoms  in  our  dreams  ; 
Many  a  night,  on  many  a  shore 

Lit  by  wan  Aurora-gleams, 
We  have  tracked  the  ghostly  band — 

Seen  distressful  signals  wave — 
Till  we  find  dim  William's  Land 

Holy  with  the  heroes'  grave. 

Toll  the  bell !  that  they  may  rest, 

Haunting  spectres  of  our  brain, — 
They  for  whom  her  tireless  quest 

Love  pursued  so  long  in  vain. 
Nevermore  let  fancy  feign 

That  the  wondering  Esquimaux 
Haply  sees  them  toil  again, 

Wild  and  haggard,  through  the  snow. 

From  the  Erebus  they  pass'd 

To  a  realm  of  light  and  balm ; 
And  the  Terror  sailed  at  last 

Into  peace  and  perfect  cairn. 
Toll  the  bell ;  but  let  it's  voice, 

Moaning  in  the  minster  dome, 
Change  at  times,  and  half  rejoice, 

For  the  mariners  at  home ! 


DA  VID  GRA  Y.  53 


REST. 

ONCE  more,  blessed  valley,  I  seek  and  have  found  thee ; 

Tired,  hunted,  1  ran,  with  the  mad  world  hallooing  ; 

I  slipped  to  thy  shade — I  am  safe  from  pursuing — 

No  care  climbeth  over  the  green  walls  that  bound  thee, 

In  the  hush  of  thy  woodlands  that  draw  me  and  woo  me, 

By  the  rush  of  thy  waters  whose  thunders  thrill  through 

me, 

In  deep  hemlock  cover,  in  vine-trellised  arbour, 

My  heart  finds  once  more  a  blest  haven  and  harbour. 
But  the  summers  are  many,  the  years  have  flown  fleetly, 

Since  first  we  came  hither,  with  revel  and  laughter. 

Ah  !  how  cosy  the  jest,  then,  the  mirth  following  after 
The  poem  to  praise  thee,  the  song  that  ran  sweetly. 

It  was  joy,  then,  that  met  us,  by  greenwood  and  meadow  ; 
It  is  rest,  now,  rest  only,  we  crave  in  thy  shadow. 


CROSS  OF  GOLD, 


THE  fifth  from  the  north  wall ; 
Row  innermost ;  and  the  pall 
Plain  black — all  black — except 
The  cross  on  which  she  wept, 
Ere  she  lay  down  and  slept. 

II. 

This  one  is  hers,  and  this — 
The  marble  next  it — his, 
So  lie  in  brave  accord 
The  lady  and  her  lord, 
Her  cross  and  his  red  sword. 


54  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

m. 

And  now,  what  seekest  thou  here ; 
Having  no  care  nor  fear 
To  vex  with  thy  hot  tread 
These  halls  of  the  long  dead, — 
To  flash  the  torch's  light 
Upon  their  utter  night  ? — 
What  word  hast  thou  to  thrust 
Into  her  ear  of  dust  ? 

IV. 

Spake  then  the  haggard  priest : 
In  lands  of  the  far  East 
I  dreamed  of  finding  rest — 
What  time  my  lips  had  prest 
The  cross  on  this  dead  breast. 

v. 

And  if  my  sin  be  shriven, 
And  mercy  live  in  heaven, 
Surely  this  hour,  and  here, 
My  long  woe's  end  is  near — 
Is  near — and  I  am  brought 
To  peace,  and  painless  thought 
Of  her  who  lies  at  rest, 
This  cross  upon  her  breast, 

VI. 

Whose  passionate  heart  is  cold 
Beneath  this  cross  of  gold  ; 
Who  lieth,  still  and  mute, 
In  sleep  so  absolute, 
Yea,  by  the  precious  sign 
Shall  sleep  most  sweet  be  mine  ; 
And  I,  at  last,  am  blest, 
Knowing  she  went  to  rest 
This  cross  upon  her  breast. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  55 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 

[Born  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  llth  November  1836.  Author  of  The 
Detts  (1855) ;  The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell,  and  other  Poems  (1856)  ; 
The  Queen  of  Sheba;  a  Romance  of  Travel  (1877)  ;  Pampinea, 
and  other  Poems  (1861)  ;  two  collections  of  Poems  (1863  and 
1865)  ;  Cloth  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems  (1874)  ;  Flower  and 
Thorn,  Later  Poems  (1876)  ;  an  edition  de  luxe  of  Lyrics  and 
Sonnets  (1880)  ;  and  Friar  Jerome's  Beautiful  Boole  (1881),  etc. 
The  poems  are  quoted  from  the  Household  Edition  of  his 
works  with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


PALABRAS  CARINOSAS. 

GOOD-NIGHT  !     I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good-night  to  fond  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there, — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good-night  again  ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

1  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good-night  ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago — 

What,  both  those  snowy  hands  !     Ah,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  good-night  again  ! 


56  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


IDENTITY. 

SOMEWHERE — in  desolate  wind-swept  space 
In  Twilight-land — in  No-man's-land — 

Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

"  And  who  are  you  ? "  cried  one,  agape, 
Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 

"  I  know  not,"  said  the  Second  Shape, 
"  I  only  died  last  night !  " 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 

[Born  in  Martin's  Ferry,  Ohio,  1st  March  1837.  Author  of  Italian 
Journeys  (1867)  ;  Suburban  Sketches  (1868)  ;  The  Rise  of  Silas 
Lapham  (1885)  ;  Tuscan  Cities  (1885) ;  The  Minister's  Charge 
(1886);  Indian  Summer  (1886) ;  Modern  Italian  Poets  (1887)  ; 
April  Hopes  (New  York,  1887),  etc.  The  poems  given  are 
quoted  with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

FORLORN. 


RED  roses,  in  the  slender  vases  burning, 

Breathed  all  upon  the  air, — 
The  passion  and  the  tenderness  and  yearning, 

The  waiting  and  the  doubting  and  despair. 

n. 

Still  with  the  music  of  her  voice  was  haunted, 

Through  all  its  charmed  rhymes, 
The  open  book  of  such  a  one  as  chanted 

The  things  he  dreamed  in  old,  old  summer-times. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS.  57 


in. 


The  silvern  chords  of  the  piano  trembled 

Still  with  the  music  wrung 
From  them ;  the  silence  of  the  room  dissembled 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  sung. 


IV. 


The  languor  of  the  crimson  shawl's  abasement, — 

Lying  without  a  stir 
Upon  the  floor — the  absence  at  the  casement, 

The  solitude  and  hush  were  full  of  her. 


v. 


Without,,  and  going  from  the  room,  and  never 

Departing,  did  depart 
Her  steps ;  and  one  that  came  too  late  forever 

Felt  them  go  heavy  o'er  his  broken  heart. 


VI. 


And,  sitting  in  the  house's  desolation, 

He  could  not  bear  the  gloom, 
The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  in  the  room. 


VII. 


Through  midnight  streets  he  followed  fleeting  visions 

Of  faces  and  of  forms ; 
He  heard  old  tendernesses  and  derisions 

Amid  the  sobs  and  cries  of  midnight  storms. 


VIII. 


By  midnight  lamps,  and  from  the  darkness  under 

That  lamps  made  at  their  feet, 
He  saw  sweet  eyes  peer  out  in  innocent  wonder. 

And  sadly  follow  after  him  down  the  street. 


58  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


IX. 


The  noonday  crowds  their  restlessness  obtruded 

Between  him  and  his  quest ; 
At  unseen  corners  jostled  and  eluded, 

Against  his  hand  her  silken  robes  were  pressed. 


x. 


Doors  closed  upon  her  ;  out  of  garret  casements 

He  knew  she  looked  at  him 
In  splendid  mansions  and  in  squalid  basements, 

Upon  the  walls  he  saw  her  shadow  swim. 


XI. 


From  rapid  carriages  she  gleamed  upon  him, 

Whirling  away  from  sight ; 
From  all  the  hopelessness  of  search  she  won  him 

Back  to  the  dull  and  lonesome  house  at  night. 


XII. 


Full  early  into  dark  the  twilights  saddened 

Within  its  closed  doors  ; 
The  echoes,  with  the  clock's  monotony  maddened, 

Leaped  loud  in  welcome  from  the  hollow  floors  ; 


xin. 


But  gusts  that  blew  all  day  with  solemn  laughter 
From  wide-mouthed  chimney-places, 

And  the  strange  noises  between  roof  and  rafter, 
The  wainscot  clamour,  and  the  scampering  races 


XIV. 


Of  mice  that  chased  each  other  through  the  chambers, 

And  up  and  down  the  stair, 
And  rioted  among  the  ashen  embers, 

And  left  their  frolic  footprints  everywhere, — 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS.  59 


xv. 


Were  hushed  to  hear  his  heavy  tread  ascending, 

The  broad  steps,  one  by  one, 
And  toward  the  solitary  chamber  tending, 

Where  the  dim  phantom  of  his  hope  alone 


XVI. 


Rose  up  to  meet  him,  with  her's  growing  nearer, 

Eager  for  his  embrace, 
And  moved,  and  melted  into  the  white  mirror, 

And  stared  at  him  with  his  own  haggard  face. 


XVII. 


But  turning,  he  was  'ware  her  looks  beheld  him 

Out  of  the  mirror  white  ; 
And  at  the  window  yearning  arms  she  held  him, 

Out  of  the  vague  and  sombre  fold  of  night. 


XVIII. 


Sometimes  she  stood  behind  him,  looking  over 

His  shoulder  as  he  read ; 
Sometimes  he  felt  her  shadowy  presence  hover 

Above  the  dreamful  sleep,  beside  his  bed ; 


XIX. 


And  rising  from  his  sleep,  her  shadowy  presence 

Followed  his  light  descent 
Of  the  long  stair ;  her  shadowy  evanescence 

Through  all  the  whispering  rooms  before  him  went. 


xx. 


Upon  the  earthly  draught  of  cellars  blowing 

His  shivering  lamp-flame  blue, 
Amid  the  damp  and  chill,  he  felt  her  flowing 

Avound  him  from  the  doors  he  entered  through. 


60  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

XXI. 

The  spiders  wove  their  web  upon  the  ceiling ; 

The  bat  clung  to  the  wall ; 
The  dry  leaves  through  the  open  transom  stealing 

Skated  and  danced  adown  the  empty  hall. 

XXII. 

About  him  closed  the  utter  desolation, 

About  him  closed  the  doom  ; 
The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  in  the  room 

XXIII. 

Vexed  him  forever ;  and  his  life  forever 

Immured  and  desolate, 
Beating  itself,  with  desperate  endeavour, 

But  bruised  itself,  against  the  round  of  fate. 

XXIV. 

The  roses,  in  their  slender  vases  burning 

Were  quenched  long  before  ; 
A  dust  was  on  the  rhymes  of  love  and  yearning ; 

The  shawl  was  like  a  shroud  upon  the  floor. 

XXV. 

Her  music  from  the  thrilling  chords  had  perished 

The  stillness  was  not  moved 
With  memories  of  cadences  long  cherished, 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  loved. 

XXVI. 

But  not  the  less  he  felt  her  presence  never 

Out  of  the  room  depart ; 
Over  the  threshold,  not  the  less,  forever 

He  felt  her  going  on  his  broken  heart. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS.  61 

THANKSGIVING. 


LORD,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought : 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still : 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  Thanksgiving  accept. 

II. 

For  the  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer  : 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  sent 
.  Unto  our  Chastisement : 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


THROUGH  THE  MEADOW. 

THE  summer  sun  was  soft  and  bland 
As  they  went  through  the  meadow  land. 

The  little  wind  that  hardly  shook 
The  silver  of  the  sleeping  brook 
Blew  the  gold  hair  about  her  eyes, — 

A  mystery  of  mysteries  ! 
So  he  must  often  pause,  and  stoop, 
And  all  the  wanton  ringlets  loop 
Behind  her  dainty  ear — emprise 

Of  slow  event  and  many  sighs. 

Across  the  stream  was  scarce  a  step, 
And  yet  she  feared  to  try  the  leap ; 
And  he,  to  still  her  sweet  alarm, 
Must  lift  her  over  on  his  arm. 


62  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

She  could  not  keep  the  narrow  way, 
For  still  the  little  feet  would  stray, 
And  ever  must  he  bend  t'undo 
The  tangled  grasses  from  her  shoe, — 
From  dainty  rosebud  lips  in  pout 
Must  kiss  the  perfect  flower  out ! 

Ah  !  little  coquette  !     Fair  deceit ! 
Some  things  are  bitter  that  were  sweet. 


DEAD. 


SOMETHING  lies  in  the  room 

Over  against  my  own  ; 
The  windows  are  lit  with  a  ghastly  bloom 

Of  candles,  burning  alone, — 
Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 
In  the  ghastly  silence  there  ! 

n. 

People  go  by  the  door, 

Tip-toe,  holding  their  breath, 
And  hush  the  talk  they  held  before, 

Lest  they  should  waken  Death, 
That  is  awake  all  night 
There  in  the  candle  light ! 

in. 

The  cat  upon  the  stairs 

Watches  with  flamy  eye, 
For  the  sleepy  one  who  shall  unawares 

Let  her  go  stealing  by. 
She  softly,  softly  purrs, 
And  claws  at  the  banisters. 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOW  ELLS.  63 

IV. 

The  bird  from  out  its  dream 

Breaks  with  a  sudden  song, 
That  stabs  the  sense  like  a  sudden  scream ; 

The  hound  the  whole  night  long 
Howls  to  the  moonless  sky, 
So  far,  and  starry,  and  high, 


THE  POETS  FRIENDS. 

THE  robin  sings  in  the  elm  ; 

The  cattle  stand  beneath, 
Sedate  and  grave,  with  great  brown  eyes 

And  fragrant  meadow-breath. 

They  listened  to  the  flattered  bird, 
The  wise-looking,  stupid  things  ; 

And  they  never  understand  a  word 
Of  all  the  robin  sings. 


A  VERY. 

NIAGARA,  1853. 


ALL  night  long  they  heard,  in  the  house  beside  the  shore, 
Heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,  through  the  multitudinous  roar, 
Out  of  the  hell  of  the  rapids  as  'twere  a  lost  soul's  cries, — 
Heard  and  could  not  believe  ;  and  the  morning  mocked 

their  eyes, 
Showing,  where  wildest  and  fiercest  the  waters  leaped  up 

and  ran 
Raving,  round  him  and  past,  the  visage  of  a  man, 


64  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Clinging,  or  seeming  to  cling,  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree  that 

caught, 

Fast  in  the  rocks  below,  scarce  out  of  the  surges  raught, 
Was  it  a  life,  could  it  be,  to  yon  slender  hope  that  clung  1 
Shrill,  above  all  the  tumult  the  answering  terror  rung. 
Under  the  weltering  rapids  a  boat  from  the  bridge  is 

drowned 
Over  the  rocks  the  lines  of  another  are  tangled  and 

wound ; 
And  the  long  fateful  hours  of  the  morning  have  wasted 

soon, 

As  it  had  been  some  blessed  trance,  and  now  it  is  noon, 
Hurry,  now  with  the  raft !     But  O  build  it  strong  and 

staunch, 
And  to  the  lines  and  treacherous  rocks  look  well  as  you 

launch  ! 

Over  the  foamy  tops  of  the  waves,  and  their  foam-sprent 

sides, 

Over  the  hidden  reefs,  and  through  the  embattled  tides 
Onward  rushes  the  raft,  with  many  a  lurch  and  a  leap — 
Lord  !  if  it  strike  him  loose  from  the  hold  he  scarce  can 

keep  ! 

No  !  through  all  peril  unharmed,  it  reaches  him  harm 
less  at  last, 
And  to  its  proven  strength  he  lashes  his  weakness  fast. 

II. 

Now,  for  the  shore !  But  steady,  steady,  my  men,  and 
slow ; 

Taut  now  the  quivering  lines ;  now  slack,  and  so,  let 
her  go ! 

Thronging  the  shores  around  stand  the  pitying  multi 
tude  ; 

Wan  as  his  own  are  their  looks,  and  a  nightmare  seems 
to  brood 

Heavy  upon  them,  and  heavy  the  silence  hangs  on  all, 

Save  for  the  rapid's  plunge,  and  the  thunder  of  the  fall 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS.  65 

But  on  a  sudden  thrills  from  the  people  still  and  pale, 
Chorusing  his  unheard  despair,  a  desperate  wail : 
Caught  on  a  lurking  point  of  rock  it  sways  and  swings, 
Sport  of  the  pitiless  waters,  the  raft  to  which  he  clings. 

in. 

All  the  long  afternoon  it  idly  swings  and  sways ; 
And  on  the  shore  the  crowd  lifts  up  its  hands  aud  prays  : 
Lifts  to  heaven  and  wrings  the  hands  so  helpless  to  save, 
Prays  for  the  mercy  of  God  on  him  whom  the  rock  and 

the  wave 
Battle  for,  fettered  betwixt  them,  and  who,  amidst  their 

strife, 
Struggles  to  help  his  helpers,  and  fights  so  hard  for  his 

life,— 
Tugging  at 'rope  and  at  reef,  while  men  weep  and  women 

swoon. 

Priceless  second  by  second,  so  wastes  the  afternoon, 
And  it  is  sunset  now ;  and  another  boat  and  the  last 
Down  to  him  from  the  bridge  through  the  rapids  has 

safely  passed. 

IV. 

Wild   through  the  crowd  comes  a  man  that  nothing  can 

stay, 
Maddening  against  the  gate  that  is  locked  athwart  his 

way. 
"  No  !  we  keep  the  bridge  for  them  that  can  help  him, 

You, 
Tell  us,  who  are  you  ? "  "  His  brother  !  "  "  God  help 

you  both  !  pass  through." 

Wild,  wide,  arms  of  imploring,  he  calls  aloud  to  him, 
Into  the  face  of  his  brother,  scarce  seen  in  the  distance 

dim  ; 
But  in  the  roar  of  the  rapids  his  fluttering  words  are 

lost 

As  in  a  wind  of  autumn  leaves  of  autumn  are  tossed. 

F 


66  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  from  the  bridge  he  sees  his  brother  sever  the  rope 
Holding  him  to  the  raft,  and  rise  secure  in  his  hope  ; 
Sees  all  as  in  a  dream,  the  terrible  pageantry, — 
Populous  shores,  the  woods,  the  sky,  the  birds   flying 

free ; 
Sees,  then,  the  form, — that,  spent  with  effort  and  fasting 

and  fear, 
Flings  itself  feebly  and  fails  of  the  boat  that  is  lying  so 

near, — 
Caught  in  the  long-baffled  clutch  of  the  rapids,  and  rolled 

and  hurled 
Headlong:  on  to  the  cataract's  brink  and  out  of  the  world. 


HENRY  AMES  BLOOD. 

[Born  at  Temple,  New  Hampshire,  1838.  Author  of  How  Much  I 
Loved,  Thee,  a  play  privately  published.  The  poems  given  are 
quoted  with  the  Author's  permission.  ] 

SHAKESPEARE. 

I  WISH  that  I  could  have  my  wish  to-night ; 

For  all  the  faeries  should  assist  my  flight 

Back  into  the  abyss  of  years 

Till  I  could  see  the  streaming  light, 

And  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres 

That  sang  together  at  the  joyous  birth 

Of  that  immortal  mind, 

The  noblest  of  his  kind, — 

The  only  Shakespeare  that  has  graced  our  earth. 

Oh,  that  I  might  behold 

Those  gentle  sprites,  of  others  all  unseen. 

Queen  Mab  and  Puck  the  bold, 

With  courtseys  manifold 

Slide  round  his  cradle  every  morn  and  e'en ; 

That  I  might  see  the  nimble  shapes  that  ran 

And  frisked  and  frolicked  bv  his  side. 


HENRY  AMES  BLOOD.  67 

When  school-hours  ended  or  began, 

At  morn  or  eventide ; 

That  I  might  see  the  very  shoes  he  wore 

Upon  the  dusty  street, 

His  little  gown  and  pinafore, 

His  satchel  and  his  schoolboy  rig  complete  ! 

If  I  could  have  the  wish  I  rhyme, 

Then  should  this  night  and  all  it  doth  contain, 

Be  set  far  back  upon  the  rim  of  Time, 

And  I  would  'wildered  be  upon  a  stormy  plain ; 

The  wanton  waves  of  winter  wind  and  storm 

Should  beat  upon  my  ruddy  face, 

And  on  my  streaming  hair ; 

And  hags  and  witches  multiform, 

And  beldames  past  all  saintly  grace, 

Should  hover  round  me  in  the  sleety  air. 

Then,  hungry,  cold,  and  frightened  by  these  imps  of  sin, 

And  breathless  all  with  buffeting  the  storm, 

Betimes  I  would  arrive  at  some  old  English  inn, 

Wainscoted,  high  and  warm. 

The  fire  should  blaze  in  antique  chimney-places ; 

And  on  the  high-backed  settles,  here  and  there, 

The  village  gossip  and  the  merry  laugh 

Should  follow  brimming  cups  of  half-and-half ; 

Before  the  fire,  in  hospitable  chair, 

The  landlord  fat  should  bask  his  shining  face, 

And  slowly  twist  his  pewter  can  ; 

And  there  in  his  consummate  grace, 

The  perfect  lord  of  wit, 

The  immortal  man, 

The  only  Shakespeare  of  this  earth  should  sit. 
There,  too,  that  Spanish  galleon  of  a  hulk, 
Ben  Jonson,  lying  at  full  length, 
Should  so  dispense  his  goodly  bulk 
That  he  might  lie  at  ease  upon  his  back, 
To  test  the  tone  and  strength 
Of  Boniface's  sherris-sack. 


68  YOUXGEK  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  them  shovld  be  BOMB  compeers  of  these  two, 

Rue  wits  and  poets  of  the  land, 

Whom  aU  good  England  knew, 

And  who  are  now  her  dear  i utget  me  no 


And  sip  their  punch  front  qjieer  okl  cans  and  pots. 
Oh.  then,  s*eh  drollery  should  begin, 

Arowjrf  the  fire  in  this  old  English  inn, 
The  luJuhi  dod  would  be  convulsed  with  fan  : 
And  Banifeees  «eny  sides  would  ache, 
And  his  round  belly  tike  a  podding  shake. 

Xerer  since  the  world  began 
Has  been  sneh  repartee  ; 
And  nerer  tffl  the  next  begins, 
Will  greater  things  be  said  by  man, 

Were  wont  to  say  so  oft  in  those  old 

Dear  Artis^  if  TOO  paint  this  pi 
Do  not  forget  the 
Above  the  awny  din 

BBC  stroke  divine 


Make  all  within  appear  more  rich  and  warm, 
B    contrast  viih  the  outer  storm. 


PRO  MORTUIS* 

FOB  the  dead  and  for  the  dying; 

For  the  dead  that  once  were  tiring. 
And  the  firing  that  are  dying. 

Fay  I  to  the  All-forgiving. 

For  the  dead  who  jester  journeyed  ; 

For  the  tiring  who,  to-morrow, 
Tkroogh  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

,  att  bear  the  world's  great  sorn 


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aiillew 

.-.    .  _.::,:  ,.  :__  \  ,, 


70  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

COLONEL  JOHN  HAY. 

[Born  in  Salem,  Indiana,  8th  October  1838.  Author  of  Pike  County 
Ballads,  Jem  Bludso  (Boston  1871)  ;  Castilian  Days,  A  History 
of  the  Administration  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  in  collaboration  with 
John  G.  Nicolay,  and  The  Bread  Winners  (New  York,  1883). 
The  poems  given  are  from  Pike  County  Ballads,  and  are  quoted 
with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

JEM    B  L  U  D  SO, 

OF    THE    PRAIRIE  BELLE. 

WALL,  no !  I  can't  tell  whar  he  lives, 

Becase  he  don't  live,  you  see ; 
Leastways,  he's  got  out  of  the  habit 

Of  livin'  like  you  and  me. 
Whar  have  you  been  for  the  last  three  year 

That  you  haven't  heard  folks  tell 
How  Jemmy  Bludso  passed  in  his  checks 

The  night  of  the  Prairie  Belle  ? 

He  weren't  no  saint, — them  engineers 

Is  all  pretty  much  alike, — 
One  wife  in  Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And  another  one  here,  in  Pike ; 
A  kurless  man  in  his  talk  was  Jem, 

And  an  awkward  hand  in  a  row, 
But  he  never  funked,  and  he  never  lied, — 

I  reckon  he  never  knowed  how. 

And  this  was  all  the  religion  he  had, — 

To  treat  his  engine  well ; 
Never  be  passed  on  the  river ; 

To  mind  the  pilot's  bell ; 
And  if  ever  the  Prairie  Belle  took  tire, — 

A  thousand  times  he  swore, 
He'd  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  soul  got  ashore. 

All  boats  has  their  day  on  the  Mississip 

And  her  day  come  at  last, — 
The  Movaster  was  a  better  boat, 

But  the  Belle  she  wouldn't  be  passed. 


COL  ON  EL  JOHN  HAY.  71 

And  so  she  came  tearing  along  that  night — 

The  oldest  craft  on  the  line — 
With  a  nigger  squat  on  her  safety-valve, 

And  her  furnace  crammed,  rosin  and  pine. 

The  fire  bust  out  as  she  cleared  the  bar, 

And  burnt  a  hole  in  the  night, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  she  turned,  and  made 

For  that  wilier-bank  on  the  right. 
There  was  runnin'  and  cursin',  but  Jem  yelled  out, 

Over  all  the  infernal  roar, 
"  I'll  hold  her  nozzle  agin  the  bank 

Till  the  last  galoot's  ashore." 

Through  the  hot,  black  breath  of  the  burnin'  boat 

Jem  Bludso's  voice  was  heard, 
And  they  all  had  trust  in  his  cussedness, 

And  knowed  he  would  keep  his  word. 
And  snre's  you're  born,  they  all  got  off 

Afore  the  smokestacks  fell, — 
And  Bludso's  ghost  went  up  alone 

In  the  smoke  of  the  Prairie  Belle. 

He  weren't  no  saint, — but  at  jedgment 

I'd  run  my  chance  with  Jem, 
Longside  of  some  pious  gentlemen 

That  wouldn't  shook  hands  with  him. 
He  seen  his  duty,  dead-sure  thing, — 

And  went  for  it  thar  and  thin  ; 
And  Christ  ain't  a-going  to  be  too  hard 

On  a  man  that  died  for  men. 


HO  W  IT  HAPPENED. 

I  PRAY  you  pardon,  Elsie, 
And  smile  that  frown  away 

That  dims  the  light  of  your  lovely  face 
As  a  thunder-cloud  the  day, 


72  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  really  could  not  help  it, — 

Before  I  thought,  it  was  done, — 
And  those  great  grey  eyes  flashed  bright  and  cold, 

Like  an  icicle  in  the  sun. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  summers 

When  we  were  boys  and  girls, 
And  wandered  in  the  blossoming  woods, 

And  the  gay  wind  romped  with  her  curls. 
And  you  seemed  to  me  the  same  little  girl 

I  kissed  in  the  alder-path, 
I  kissed  the  little  girl's  lips,  and  alas  ! 

I  have  roused  a  woman's  wrath. 

There  is  not  so  much  to  pardon, — 

For  why  were  your  lips  so  red  ? 
The  blonde  hair  fell  in  a  shower  of  gold 

From  the  proud,  provoking  head. 
And  the  beauty  that  flashed  from  the  splendid  eyes 

And  played  round  the  tender  mouth, 
Rushed  over  my  soul  like  a  warm  sweet  wind 

That  blows  from  the  fragrant  south. 

And  where  after  all  is  the  harm  done? 

I  believe  we  were  made  to  be  gay, 
And  all  of  youth  not  given  to  love 

Is  vainly  squandered  away, 
And  strewn  through  life's  low  labours, 

Like  gold  in  the  desert  sands, 
Are  love's  swift  kisses  and  sighs  and  vows 

And  the  clasp  of  clinging  hands. 

And  when  you  are  old  and  lonely, 

In  memory's  magic  shi'ine 
You  will  see  on  your  thin  and  wasting  hands, 

Like  gems,  these  kisses  of  mine. 
And  when  you  muse  at  evening 

At  the  sound  of  some  vanished  name, 
The  ghost  of  my  kisses  shall  touch  your  lips 

And  kindle  your  heart  to  flame. 


COLONEL  JOHA  HA  Y.  73 

REGARDANT. 

As  I  lay  at  your  feet  that  afternoon, 
Little  we  spoke, — you  sat  and  mused, 
Humming  a  sweet  old-fashioned  tune, 

And  I  worshipped  you,  with  a  sense  confused 
Of  the  good  time  gone  and  the  bad  on  the  way, 
While  my  hungry  eyes  your  face  perused 

To  catch  and  brand  on  my  soul  for  aye 

The  subtle  smile  which  had  grown  my  doom, 

Drinking  sweet  poison  hushed  I  lay 

Till  the  sunset  shimmered  athwart  the  room. 

I  rose  to  go.     You  stood  so  fair 

And  dim  in  the  dead  day's  tender  gloom  : 

All  at  once,  or  ever  I  was  aware, 

Flashed  from  you  on  me  a  warm  strong  wave 

Of  passion  and  power ;  in  the  silence  there 

I  fell  on  my  knees,  like  a  lover,  or  slave, 

With  my  wild  hands  clasping  your  slender  waist ; 

And  my  lips,  with  a  sudden  frenzy  brave, 

A  madman's  kiss  on  your  girdle  pressed, 
And  I  felt  your  calm  heart's  quickening  beat, 
And  your  soft  hands  on  me  one  instant  rest. 

And  if  God  had  loved  me,  how  endlessly  sweet 
Had  He  let  my  heart  in  its  rapture  burst, 
And  throb  its  last  at  your  firm,  small  feet ! 

And  when  I  was  forth,  I  shuddered  at  first 
At  my  imminent  bliss,  as  a  soul  in  pain, 
Treading  his  desolate  path  accursed, 

Looks  back  and  dreams  through  his  tears  dim  rain 
That  by  heaven's  wide  gate  the  angels  smile, 
Relenting,  and  beckon  him  back  again, 

And  goes  on,  thrice  damned  by  that  devil's  wile, — 

So  sometimes  burns  in  my  weary  brain 

The  thought  that  you  loved  me  all  the  while. 


74  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


FATHER  ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN. 

[Born  in  Norfolk, Pa.,  15th  August  1839.  Died  in  Louisville,  Ky., 
22d  April  1886.  Author  of  The  Conquered  Banner;  Poems, 
Patriotic,  Religious  and  Miscellaneous ;  Life  of  Christ,  The  Lost 
Cause,  The  Sword  of  Lee,  The  Flag  of  Erin,  and  the  epic, 
Their  Story  Runneth  Thus.  The  poems  given  are 'from  the 
Household  Edition  of  his  works,  published  by  the  Baltimore 
Publishing  Co.,  with  whose  kind  permission  they  are  quoted.] 

IN  MEMOR  Y  OF  MY  BROTHER. 

YOUNG  as  the  youngest  who  donned  the  grey, 

True  as  the  truest  that  wore  it, 
Brave  as  the  bravest  he  marched  away 
(Hot  tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  mother  lay), 
Triumphant  waved  our  flag  one  day — 

He  fell  in  the  front  before  it. 

Firm  as  the  firmest,  where  duty  led, 

He  hurried  without  a  falter ; 
Bold  as  the  boldest  he  fought  and  bled, 
And  the  day  was  won — but  the  field  was  red — 
And  the  blood  of  his  fresh  young  heart  was  shed 

On  his  country's  hallowed  altar. 

On  the  trampled  breast  of  the  battle  plain 
Where  the  foremost  ranks  had  wrestled, 

On  his  pale,  pure  face  not  a  mark  of  pain 

(His  mother  dreams  they  will  meet  again), 

The  fairest  form  amid  all  the  slain, 
Like  a  child  asleep  he  nestled. 

In  the  solemn  shades  of  the  wood  that  swept 

The  field  where  his  comrades  found  him, 
They  buried  him  there — and  the  big  tears  crept 
Into  strong  men's  eyes  that  had  seldom  wept 
(His  mother — God  pity  her — smiled  and  slept, 
Dreaming  her  arms  were  around  him). 


FA  THER  ABRAM  JOSEPH  R  VAN.  7  5 

A  grave  in  the  woods  with  the  grass  o'ergrown, 

A  grave  in  the  heart  of  his  mother — 
His  clay  in  the  one  lies  lifeless  and  lone ; 
There  is  not  a  name,  there  is  not  a  stone, 
And  only  the  voice  of  the  winds  maketh  moan 
O'er  the  grave  where  never  a  flower  is  strewn, 
But  his  memory  lives  in  the  other. 


SENTINEL  SONGS. 

WHEN  falls  the  soldier  brave, 

Dead  at  the  feet  of  wrong, 
The  poet  sings  and  guards  his  grave 

With  sentinels  of  song. 

Songs,  march  !  he  gives  command, 
Keep  faithful  watch  and  true ; 

The  living  and  dead  of  the  conquered  land 
Have  now  no  guards  save  you. 

Grey  ballads  !  mark  ye  well ! 

Thrice  holy  is  your  trust ! 
Go  !  halt  by  the  fields  where  warriors  fell ; 

Rest  arms  !  and  guard  their  dust. 

List  !  songs  !  your  watch  is  long, 
The  soldier's  guard  was  brief; 

Whilst  right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong 
Ye  may  not  seek  relief. 

Go  !  wearing  the  grey  of  grief  ! 

Go  !  watch  o'er  the  dead  in  grey  ! 
Go !  guard  the  private  and  guard  the  chief, 

And  sentinel  their  clay  ! 

And  the  songs,  in  stately  rhyme 
And  with  softly-sounding  tread, 

Go  forth,  to  watch  for  a  time — a  time — 
Where  sleep  the  Deathless  Dead. 


76  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  the  songs,  like  funeral  dirge, 

In  music  soft  and  low, 
Sing  round  the  graves  whilst  hot  tears  surge 

From  heai'ts  that  are  homes  of  woe. 

What  tho'  no  sculptured  shaft 

Immortalise  each  brave  ? 
What  tho'  no  monument  epitaphed 

Be  built  above  each  grave  1 

When  marble  wears  away 

And  monuments  are  dust, 
The  songs  that  guard  our  soldier's  clay 

Will  still  fulfil  their  trust, 

With  lifted  head  and  stately  tread 
Like  stars  that  guard  the  skies, 

Go  watch  each  bed  where  rest  the  dead 
Brave  songs,  with  sleepless  eyes. 


When  falls  the  cause  of  Bight, 

The  poet  grasps  his  pen, 
And  in  gleaming  letters  of  living  light 

Transmits  the  truth  to  men. 

Go  !  songs  !  he  says  who  sings, 

Go  !  tell  the  world  this  tale ; 
Bear  it  afar  on  your  tireless  wings  : 

The  Right  will  yet  prevail. 

Songs  !  sound  like  the  thunder's  breath  ! 

Boom  o'er  the  world  and  say : 
Brave  men  may  die — Right  has  no  death  ! 

Truth  never  shall  pass  away  ! 

Go  !  sing  thro'  a  nation's  sighs  ! 

Go  !  sob  thro'  a  people's  tears  ! 
Sweep  the  horizons  of  all  the  skies, 

And  throb  through  a  thousand  years ! 


FA THER  ABRAM  JOSEPH  RYAN.  77 

And  the  songs,  with  brave,  sad  face, 

Go  proudly  down  their  way, 
Wailing  the  loss  of  a  conquered  race 

And  waiting  an  Easter-day. 

Away  !  away  !  like  the  birds, 

They  soar  in  their  flight  sublime ; 
And  the  waving  wings  of  the  poet's  words 

Flash  down  to  the  end  of  time. 

When  the  flag  of  justice  fails, 

Ere  its  folds  have  yet  been  furled, 
The  poet  waves  its  folds  in  wails 

That  flutter  o'er  the  world. 

Songs,  march  !  and  in  rank  by  rank 

The  low,  wild  verses  go, 
To  watch  the  graves  where  the  grass  is  dank 

And  the  martyrs  sleep  below. 

Songs  !  halt  when  there  is  no  name  ! 

Songs  !  stay  when  there  is  no  stone  ! 
And  wait  till  you  hear  the  feet  of  Fame 

Coming  to  where  ye  moan. 

And  the  songs,  with  lips  that  mourn, 
And  with  hearts  that  break  in  twain 

At  the  beck  of  the  bard — a  hope  forlorn — 
Watch  the  plain  where  sleep  the  slain. 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

FUEL  that  Banner,  for  'tis  weary  ; 
Round  its  staff  'tis  drooping  dreary ; 

Furl  it,  fold  it,  it  is  best ; 
For  there's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 


78  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  there's  not  one  left  to  lave  it 
In  the  blood  which  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it ; 
Furl  it,  hide  it — let  it  rest. 

Take  the  Banner  down  !  'tis  tattered ; 
Broken  is  its  shaft  and  tattered ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 

Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh  !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ; 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it  ; 
Hard  that  those  who  once  unrolled  it 

Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Furl  that  Banner  !  furl  it  sadly  ! 
Once  ten  thousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly, 

Swore  it  should  for  ever  wave  ; 
Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever, 
Till  that  flag  should  float  for  ever 

O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave  ! 

Furl  it !  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 

Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low  ; 
And  that  Banner — it  is  trailing ! 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 

Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

For  though  conquered,  they  adore  it ! 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it ! 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it ! 
But,  oh  !  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  who  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  that  Banner  !     True,  its  gory, 
Yet  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust : 


FA  THER  A  BRA  M  JOSEPH  RYAN.  79 

For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages — 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  Banner,  softly,  slowly  ! 
Treat  it  gently — it  is  holy — 

For  it  droops  above  the  dead. 
Touch  it  not— unfold  it  never, 
Let  it  droop  then,  furled  for  ever, 

For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead  ! 


C.  S.  A. 

Do  we  weep  for  the  heroes  who  died  for  us, 
Who  living  were  true  and  tried  for  us, 
And  dying  sleep  side  by  side  for  us ; 

The  Martyr-band 

That  hallowed  our  land, 
With  the  blood  they  shed  in  a  tide  for  us  ? 

Ah  !  fearless  in  many  a  day  for  us 
They  stood  in  front  of  the  fray  for  TIS, 
And  held  the  foeman  at  bay  for  us ; 

And  tears  should  fall 

Fore'er  o'er  all 
Who  fell  while  wearing  the  grey  for  us. 

How  many  a  glorious  name  for  us, 

How  many  a  story  of  fame  for  us 

They  left !     Would  it  riot  be  a  blame  for  us 

If  their  memories  part 

From  our  land  and  heart, 
And  a  wrong  to  them,  and  shame  for  us  1 

No,  no,  no,  they  were  brave  for  us, 

And  bright  were  the  lives  they  gave  for  us ; 

The  land  they  struggled  to  save  for  us 


8o  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Will  not  forget 
Its  warriors  yet 
Who  sleep  in  so  many  a  grave  for  us. 

On  many  and  many  a  plain  for  us 

Their  blood  poured  down  all  in  vain  for  us, 

Red,  rich,  and  pure,  like  a  rain  for  us ; 

They  bleed — we  weep, 

We  live — they  sleep, 
"  All  lost  "  the  only  refrain  for  us. 

But  their  memories  e'er  shall  remain  for  us, 

And  their  names,  bright  names,  without  stain  for  us 

The  glory  they  won  shall  not  wane  for  us, 

In  legend  and  lay 

Our  heroes  in  gray 
Shall  for  ever  live  over  again  for  us. 


[FRANCIS]  BRET  HARTE. 

[Born  in  Albany,  N.Y.,  28th  August  1839.  Author  of  Poem*, 
(Boston,  1871) ;  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  other  Sketches 
(1871)  ;  East  and  West  Poems  (1871)  ;  Poetical  Works  (1871)  ; 
By  Shore  and  Sedge  (1885) ;  Snow-Bound  at  Eagle's  (1886)  ; 
A  Millionaire  of  Rough  and  Ready  (1887) ;  The  Crusade  of  the 
Excelsior  (1887)  ;  also  collected  Works  (5  vols.,  1882).  The 
poems  given  are  from  the  Household  Edition  of  his  poems,  and 
are  quoted  by  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  MifHin  &  Co., 
Boston,  and  Chatto  &  Windus,  London.] 

HER   LETTER. 

I'M  sitting  alone  by  the  fire, 

Dressed  just  as  I  come  from  the  dance, 
In  a  robe  even  you  would  admire — 

It  cost  a  cool  thousand  in  France ; 
I'm  be-diamonded  out  of  all  reason, 

My  hair  is  done  up  in  a  cue  : 
In  short,  sir,  "  the  belle  of  the  season  " 

Is  wasting  an  hour  upon  you. 


[FRANCIS]  BRET  HARTE.  81 

A  dozen  engagements  I've  broken  ; 

I  left  in  the  midst  of  a  set ; 
Likewise  a  proposal,  half  spoken, 

That  waits  on  the  stairs  for  me  yet. 
They  say  he'll  be  rich, — when  he  grows  up, — 

And  then  he  adores  me  indeed ; 
And  you,  sir,  are  turning  your  nose  up, 

Three  thousand  miles  off,  as  you  read. 

"  And  how  do  I  like  my  position  1 " 

"  And  what  do  I  think  of  New  York  1 " 
"And  now,  in  my  higher  ambition, 

With  whom  do  I  waltz,  flirt,  or  talk1?" 
"  And  isn't  it  nice  to  have  riches, 

And  diamonds,  and  silks,  and  all  that  ? " 
"And  aren't  it  a  change  to  the  ditches 

And  tunnels  of  Poverty  Flat?" 

Well,  yes,  if  you  saw  us  out  driving 

Each  day  in  the  Park,  four-in-hand — 
If  you  saw  poor  dear  mamma  contriving 

To  look  supernaturally  grand, — 
If  you  saw  papa's  picture,  as  taken 

By  Brady,  and  tinted  at  that, — 
You'd  never  suspect  he  sold  bacon 

And  flour  at  Poverty  Flat. 

And  yet,  just  this  moment,  when  sitting 

In  the  glare  of  the  grand  chandelier, — 
In  the  bustle  and  glitter  befitting 

The  "  finest  soiree  of  the  year," — 
In  the  mists  of  a  gaze  de  Chambery, 

And  the  hum  of  the  smallest  of  talk, 
Somehow,  Joe,  I  thought  of  the  "Ferry," 

And  the  dance  that  we  had  on  "  The  Fork  :  :' 

Of  Harrison's  barn,  with  its  muster, 

Of  flags  festooned  over  the  wall ; 
Of  the  candles  that  shed  their  soft  lustre 

And  tallow  on  head-dress  and  shawl  ; 
F 


82  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Of  the  steps  that  we  took  to  one  fiddle, 
Of  the  dress  of  my  queer  vis-ct-vis  ; 

And  how  I  once  went  down  the  middle 
With  the  man  that  shot  Sandy  M'Gee ; 

Of  the  moon  that  was  quietly  sleeping 

On  the  hill,  when  the  time  came  to  go ; 
Of  the  few  baby  peaks  that  were  peeping 

From  under  their  bedclothes  of  snow ; 
Of  that  ride, — that  to  me  was  the  rarest ; 

Of — the  something  you  said  at  the  gate. 
Ah  !  Joe,  then  I  wasn't  an  heiress 

To  "  the  best-paying  lead  in  the  state." 

Well,  well,  it's  all  past ;  yet  it's  funny 

To  think  as  I  stood  in  the  glare 
Of  fashion  and  beauty  and  money, 

That  I  should  be  thinking  right  there, 
Of  some  one  who  breasted  high  water, 

And  swam  the  North  Fork  and  all  that, 
Just  to  dance  with  old  Folensbee's  daughter, 

The  Lily  of  Poverty  Flat. 

But  goodness  !  what  nonsense  I'm  writing  ! 

(Mamma  says  my  taste  is  still  low), 
Instead  of  my  triumphs  reciting, 

I'm  spooning  on  Joseph, — heigh-ho  ! 
And  I'm  to  be  "  finished  "  by  travel, — 

Whatever's  the  meaning  of  that. 
Oh,  why  did  papa  strike  pay  gravel 

In  drifting  on  Poverty  Flat  ? 

Good-night !  here's  the  end  of  my  paper  ; 

Good-night ! — if  the  longitude  please, — 
For  maybe,  while  wasting  my  paper, 

Your  sun's  climbing  over  the  trees. 
But  know,  if  you  haven't  got  riches, 

And  are  poor,  dearest  Joe,  and  all  that, 
That  my  heart's  somewhere  there  in  the  ditches 

And  you've  struck  it,  on  Poverty  Flat. 


[FRANCIS}  BRET  HARTE.  83 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP. 

ABOVE  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below ; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humour,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volume  drew, 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  shadows  round  them  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy, — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all, — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While  the  whole  camp  with  "  Nell "  on  English  meadows 

Wandered,  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  drop  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire ; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell  1 — 
Ah  !  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire, 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 


|.  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Lost  is  that  camp  !  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 

With  hop- vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills  ; 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreathes  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  Western  Pine  ! 


HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 

[Born  at  Warren,  Rhode  Island,  22d  December  1839.  Author  of 
Story  of  the  Hymns  (Boston,  1876)  ;  Zig-zag  Journeys  (1876-86)  ; 
The  Prayers  of  History  (1880) ;  Poems  for  Christmas,  Easter, 
and  the  New  Year  (1883)  ;  Great  Composers,  and  Wonderful 
Christmases  of  Old  (1885)  ;  Songs  of  History  (1887,  Boston, 
New  England  Publishing  Co.).  The  poems  quoted  are  from 
this  volume,  and  are  given  with  the  kind  permission  of  the 
publishers.] 

THE  CLOCKS  OF KENIL  WORTH. 

SUGGESTED    BY    THE    RUINED  CHURCH    AT    JAMESTOWN, 
VIRGINIA. 

"The  clocks  were  stopped  at  the  banquet-hour." 

AN  ivy  spray  in  my  hand  I  hold, 

The  kindly  ivy  that  covers  the  mould 

Of  ruined  halls ;  it  was  brought  to  me 

From  Kenilworth  Castle,  over  the  sea — 

O,  Ivy,  Ivy,  I  think  of  that  Queen, 

Who  once  swept  on  her  way  through  the  oak  walls  green, 

To  Kenilworth,  far  in  the  gathering  glooms, 

Her  cavalcade  white  with  silver  plumes. 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mouM, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold ! 


HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH.  85 

O,  Ivy,  Ivy — I  see  tbat  hour. 

The  great  bell  strikes  in  the  signal -tower, 

The  banners  lift  in  the  ghostly  moon, 

The  bards  Provengal  their  harps  attune, 

The  fiery  fountains  play  on  the  lawns, 

The  glare  of  the  rocket  startles  the  fawns, 

The  trumpets  peal,  and  roll  the  drums, 

And  the  Castle  thunders,  "  She  comes,  she  comes  !  " 
They  are  one,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold ! 

But  hark  !  the  notes  of  the  culverin  ! 

To  the  Castle's  portal,  trooping  in, 

A  thousand  courtiers  torches  bear, 

And  the  turrets  flame  in  the  dusky  air. 

The  Castle  is  ringing, "All  hail !  all  hail ! " 

Ride  slowly,  O  Queen  !  'mid  the  walls  of  mail, 

And  now  let  the  courtliest  knight  of  all 

Lead  thy  jewelled  feet  to  the  banquet  hall; 

A  thousand  goblets  await  thee  there, 

And  the  great  clocks  lift  their  faces  in  air. 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold  ! 

O,  Ivy  true ;  0,  Ivy  old, 
The  great  clocks  stare  on  the  cups  of  gold, 
Like  dreadful  eyes,  and  their  hands  pass  on 
The  festive  minutes,  one  by  one. 
— "  Dying — dying,"  they  seem  to  say — 
"  This  too —  this  too — shall  pass  away." 
And  the  knights  look  up,  and  the  knights  look  down, 
And  their  fair  white  brows  on  the  great  clocks  frown. 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold  ! 


86  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

On  the  dais  the  Queen  now  stands — and  falls 

A  silence  deep  on  the  blazing  halls ; 

She  opens  her  lips — but,  hark  !  now  dare 

The  clocks  to  beat  in  the  stillness  there  ? 

— "  Dying — dying,"  they  seem  to  say — 

"This  too — this  too — shall  pass  away  !" 

And  the  Queen  looks  up,  and  with  stony  stare 

The  high  clocks  look  on  the  proud  Queen  there. 
They  are,  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold! 

Then  the  dark  knights  say,  "  What  is  wanting  here  ? " 
"  That  the  hour  should  last " — so  said  a  peer. 
"  The  hour  shall  last !  "  the  proud  earl  calls  ; 
"  Ho  !     Stop  the  clocks  in  the  banquet  halls  !  " 
And  the  clock's  slow  pulses  of  death  were  stilled, 
And  the  gay  earl  smiled,  and  the  wine  was  spilled, 
And  the  jewelled  Queen  at  the  dumb  clocks  laughed, 
And  the  flashing  goblet  raised  and  quaffed. 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold  ! 

But  time  went  on,  though  the  clocks  were  dead ; 
O'er  the  dewy  oaks  rose  the  morning  red. 
The  earl  of  that  sun-crowned  castle  died, 
And  never  won  the  Queen  for  his  bride, 
And  the  Queen  grew  old,  and  withered,  and  grey, 
And  at  last  in  her  balls  of  state  she  lay 
On  her  silken  cushions,  bejewelled,  but  poor, 
And  the  courtiers  listened  without  the  door. 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold  ! 

The  twilight  flushes  the  arrased  hall, 
The  Night  comes  still,  and  her  velvet  pall 


HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH.  87 

Of  diamonds  cold  drops  from  her  hand, 

And  still  as  the  stars  is  the  star-lit  land. 

Men  move  like  ghosts  through  the  castle's  rooms, 

But  the  old  clocks  talk  'mid  the  regal  glooms  : 

— "Dying — dying,"  they  seem  to  say, 

Till  the  astrals  pale  in  the  light  of  day. 

They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold ! 

O,  Ivy  true,  as  they  listen  there, 
On  the  helpless  Queen  the  great  clocks  stare, 
And  over  and  over  again  they  say, 
"This  too — this  too — shall  pass  away." 
And  she  clasps  the  air  with  her  fingers  old, 
And  the  hall  is  shadowy,  empty  and  cold. 
"  Life  !  life  !  "  she  cries,  "  my  all  would  I  give 
For  a  moment,  one  moment,  O  Time,  to  live  ! " 
They  are  gone,  all  gone,  those  knights  of  old, 
With  their  red-cross  banners  and  spurs  of  gold, 
And  thou  dost  cover  their  castle's  mould, 
0,  Ivy,  loy,  dark  and  cold ! 

On  her  crownless  brow  fell  white  her  hair, 
And  she  buried  her  face  in  her  cushions  there  : 
"  One  moment !  " — it  echoed  through  the  hall, 
But  the  clock  stopped  not  on  the  arrased  wall. 

There  is  a  palace  whose  dial  towers 

Uplift  no  record  of  vanishing  hours, 
Disease  comes  not  to  its  doors,  nor  falls 
Death's  dusty  step  in  its  golden  halls. 

And  more  than  crowns,  or  castles  old, 

Or  red-cross  banners  or  spurs  of  gold, 

That  palace  key  it  is  to  hold, 
0,  Ivy,  Ivy,  dark  and  cold  ! 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


THE  FLORIDA 

THE  Southern  Cross  uplifts  one  glowing  star 
Between  the  horizon  and  the  Gulf  afar  ; 
I  watch  the  light  from  the  lone  river  bar, 

And  gaze  across  the  sea. 
A  sea,  on  which  an  hundred  sunsets  flow, 
Whose  tides  around  an  hundred  islands  glow, 
Where  lies  the  sky  above  in  deeps  below,  — 

A  shadow  falls  on  me. 
Has  heaven  opened  1  —  do  evangels  fly, 
As  in  the  prophet's  heaven,  across  the  sky  ? 
An  hundred  silver  wings  now  fill  my  eye, 

A  cloud  of  wings,  as  one. 
O  Ibis,  Ibis  !  whose  thin  wings  of  white 
Scarce  stir  the  roses  of  the  sunset  light, 
When  Day  dissolving  leaves  the  coasts  to  Night, 

And  far  seas  hide  the  sun  ; 

From  weedy  weirs  where  blaze  the  tropic  noons, 
Savannas  dark  where  cool  the  fiery  moons  ; 
From  still  Lake  Worth,  and  mossy-walled  lagoons, 

Where  never  footsteps  stray; 
To  far  Clear  Water,  and  its  isles  of  pine, 
From  beryl  seas  to  seas  of  opaline, 
Those  level  coasts  where  helpless  sea  conchs  shine, 

Thou  driftest  on  thy  way  ! 

0  Ibis,  Ibis,  bird  of  Hermes  bold, 
The  avatar  to  men  from  gates  of  gold, 

That  blessed  all  eyes  that  saw  thy  wings  of  old, 
My  thought,  like  thee,  hath  wings. 

1  follow  thee,  as  cool  the  shadows  fall, 
And  burn  the  stars  on  yon  horizon's  wall  ; 
And  Memphian  altars,  as  my  thoughts  recall, 

My  soul  to  thee  upsprings  ! 
My  heart  to-night  with  Nature's  soul  is  thrilled, 
As  with  the  fire  that  priests  of  Isis  filled 
WThen  ro^e  thy  wings,  and  all  the  world  was  stilled 

Beneath  thy  lucent  plumes  ! 


HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH.  89 

O  Ibis,  Ibis,  whence  thy  silent  flight  ? 
O'er  everglades  that  only  fire-flies  light, 
Magnolias  languid  with  their  blooms,  when  Night 
Gathers  from  far  her  glooms. 

O'er  mossy  live-oaks,  high  palmetto  shades, 
The  cypressed  lakelets  of  the  everglades; 
O'er  rivers  dead,  and  still  pines'  colonnades, 
Where  sweet  the  jessamine  grows  ; 

Where  red  blooms  flame  amid  the  trailing  moss, 
And  streams  unnumbered  low  lianas  cross, 
Wild  orange  groves,  where  in  their  nests  of  floss 
The  sun-birds  find  repose. 

But  hark  !  what  sound  upon  the  stillness  breaks  ? 
A  rifle  shot — a  boatman  on  the  lakes, 
An  Ibis'  wing  above  in  silver  flakes — 
A"  white  bird  downward  falls  ! 

O  Ibis,  Ibis,  of  the  tropic  skies, 
For  whom  the  arches  of  the  sunsets  rise, 
God  made  this  world  to  be  thy  Paradise, 
Thy  Eden  without  walls. 

O  Ibis  dead,  that  on  the  dark  lake  floats, 
Whose  dimming  eyes  see  not  the  sportsmen's  boats, 
O'er  whose  torn  wing  some  brutal  instinct  gloats, 
I  wonder  if  in  thee 

Lives  not  some  spirit, — so  the  Egyptian  thought, — 
Some  inner  life  from  Life's  great  Fountain  brought, 
Something  divine  from  God's  great  goodness  caught, 
Some  Immortality  ? 

Are  all  these  Paradises  dead  to  thee, 
The  cool  savanna  and  the  purple  sea, 
The  air,  thy  ocean,  where  thou  wanderest  free, — 
I  wonder,  are  they  dead  1 

Or  hast  thou  yet  a  spirit  life,  that  flies 
Like  thine  own  image  through  the  endless  skies, 
And  art  thou  to  some  new-born  Paradise 
Bv  higher  instincts  led  ? 


90  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Is  death,  like  life,  alike  to  all  that  live  ? 
Does  God  to  all  a  double  being  give  ? 
Do  all  that  breathe  eternal  life  receive  ? 
Is  thought,  where'er  it  be, 

Immortal  as  the  Source  from  whence  it  came  ?- 
O  living  Ibis,  in  the  sunset's  flame, 
Still  flying  westward  thou  and  I,  the  same, 
Can  answer  not — but  He  ! 


ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 

[Born  at  Rochester,  New  York,  27th  January  1840.  Graduated  at 
the  University  of  Rochester  1863.  Author  of  Phaeton  Rogers, 
a  Novel  of  Boy  Life  (New  York,  1881)  ;  A  History  of  the  War 
between  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain  in  1812-15  (1882)  ; 
A  History  of  the  French  War,  ending  in  the  Conquest  of  Canada 
(1882) ;  Idler  and  Poet  (Boston,  1883)  ;  and  A  Short  History  of 
the  War  of  Secession  (1885-7).  The  poems  given  are  quoted 
with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

FAITH'S  SURRENDER. 

As  vanquished  years  behind  me  glide, 

Trailing  the  banner  of  their  boasts, 
Lo  !  step  by  step  and  stride  for  stride, 

Beside  me  walk  their  silent  ghosts. 
Each,  while  a  narrow  moment  burned, 

The  breath  of  full  existence  shared  ; 
Then  mortal  substance  backward  turned, 

Immortal  shadow  onward  fared. 

Between  the  doing  and  the  dreaming, 

My  slack  hands  fall ; 
Between  the  being  and  the  seeming, 

My  senses  pall ; 

And  swiftly  through  life's  broken  arches 
Care  with  his  troop  triumphant  marches, 

And  claims  me  thrall. 

Then  ever,  'mid  the  moving  throng 
Whose  mocking  footfalls  echo  mine, 


ROSSITER  JOHNSON.  91 

Poor  widowed  Memory  heads  along 

Her  children  in  a  lengthened  line. 
What  time  the  head  in  silence  hung, 

I  knew  them  by  that  voiceless  sign — 
Their  tender  forms  for  ever  young, 

Their  weary  eyes  as  old  as  mine. 

Between,  retreating  and  encroaching 

Their  footprints  lie  ; 
Between  beseeching  and  reproaching 

Their  voices  die ; 

And  every  scheme  of  better  living 
They  mar  with  blotches  of  misgiving, 

And  thrust  it  by. 

The  one  foul  word  in  record  fair 

Stands  out  the  foremost  on  the  page, 
Till  all  of  good  or  glory  there 

Seems  chance-achieved  or  shrunk  with  age  ; 
The  present  help  of  manly  strength, 

The  royal  sway  of  manly  will, 
However  bold,  go  down  at  length 

Before  some  iron-visored  ill. 

Betwixt  old  baulk  and  new  beginning 

How  Courage  quails  ! 
'Twixt  white  intent  and  stain  of  sinning 

How  Virtue  fails ! 

And  backward  on  her  own  path  turning, 
When  Hazard's  lurid  torch  is  burning, 

How  Reason  pales  ! 

From  self  the  subtle  motive  spun, 

Through  self  the  generous  purpose  burns, 
For  self  the  martyr  deed  is  done, 

And  round  to  self  at  last  returns 
The  boon  for  others  dearly  bought, 

The  far  result  of  sacrifice, 
That  triumphs  in  completed  thought, 

Or  lights  a  gleam  in  dying  eyes. 


92  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Betwixt  grim  fact  and  sad  surmising, 

Joys  merge  in  pain ; 
T'wixt  love  for  self  and  self -despising, 

What  grounds  remain, 
Where  Hope  is  lord  and  Fear  is  vassal, 
Where  calm  Content  may  build  her  castle, 

Nor  build  in  vain  1 

Though  Truth  be  steadfast  as  the  hills 

Whose  flinty  faces  mock  at  Time, 
What  boots  it,  if  110  living  rills 

Boll  downward  from  that  steep  sublime  ? 
I  could  not  hold  its  airy  height, 

Though  I  should  trace  the  narrow  track. 
While  trembling  foot  and  failing  sight 

Conspire  too  well  to  hurl  me  back. 

Between  the  climbing  and  the  creeping, 

There's  blood  and  bruise ; 
Between  the  laughing  and  the  weeping, 

The  soul  may  lose 

Her  grasp  of  all  that  makes  the  morrow 
Seem  other  than  a  greener  sorrow, 

With  fresher  dews. 


LA  WRENCE. 

HE  came   in    the  glory  of    summer ;    in   the    terror  of 

summer  he  went ; 
Like  a  blossom  the  breezes  have  wafted  ;  like  a  bough 

that  the  tempest  has  rent. 
His  blue  eyes  unclosed  in  the  morning,  his  brown  eyes 

were  darkened  at  morn  ; 
And  the  durance  of  pain  could  not  banish  the  beauty 

wherewith  he  was  born. 
He  came — can  we  ever  forget  it,  while  the  years  of  our 

pilgrimage  roll  1 — 
He  came  in  thine  anguish  of  body,  he  passed  'mid  our 

anguish  of  soul, 


ROSSITER  JOHNSON.  93 

He  brought  us  a  pride  and  a  pleasure,  he  left  us  a  pathos 

of  tears  : 
A  dream  of  impossible  futures,  a  glimpse  of  uncalendared 

years. 
His  voice  was  a  sweet  inspiration,  his  silence  a  sign  from 

afar  ; 
He  made   us    the  heroes  we  were    not,  he  left  us  the 

cowards  we  are, 
For  the  moan  of  the  heart  follows  after  his  clay,  with 

perpetual  dole, 
Forgetting  the  torture  of  body  is  lost  in  the    triumph 

of  soul. 

A  man  in  the  world  of  his  cradle,  a  sage  in  his  infantine 

lore, 
He  was  brave  in  the  might  of  endurance,  was  patient, — 

and  who  can  be  more  1 
He  had  learned  to  be  shy  of  the  stranger,  to  welcome 

his  mother's  warm  kiss, 
To  trust  in  the  arms  of  his  Father, — and  who  can  be 

wiser  than  this  ? 
The    lifetime  we    thought  lay  before   him,  already  was 

rounded  and  whole, 
In  dainty  completeness  of  body  and  wondrous  perfection 

of  soul. 

The  newness  of  love  at  his  coming,  the  freshness  of  grief 

when  he  went, 
The  pitiless  pain  of  his   absence,   the  effort  at  argued 

content, 
The  dim  eye  for  ever  retracing  the  few  little  footprints 

he  made, 
The  quick  thought  for  ever  recalling  the  visions  that  never 

can  fade, — 
For   these   but  one    comfort,   one  answer,  in    faith's   or 

philosophy's  roll : 
Come  to  us  for  a  pure  little  body,  went  to  God  for  a 

glorified  soul. 


94  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER. 

[Born  in  Ireland  in  1840.  Author  of  The  Liber  Amoris  (1886, 
Boston,  Ticknor  &  Co.,  now  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.)  The  ex 
tracts  from  this  poem  are  given  by  kind  permission  of  the 
publishers.  "  The  Trio  for  Twelfth-Night  "  is  f  rom  the  A  tlantic 
Monthly.  ] 

A  TRIO  FOR  TWELFTH-NIGHT 
i. 

WHO  first  brought  man  the  morning  dream 
Of  a  world's  hero  1     Whence  the  gleam 
Which  grew  to  glory  full  and  sweet 
As  the  wide  wealth  of  waving  wheat 

Springs  from  one  grain  of  corn  1 
What  drew  the  spirits  of  earth's  grey  prime 
To  lean  out  from  their  tower  of  time 
Toward  the  small  sound  of  Hope's  far  chime 

Heard  betwixt  night  and  morn  ? 

First  it  was  sung  by  heaven;  then  scrolled 
By  the  scribe-stars  on  leaves  of  gold 
In  that  long-buried  book  of  Seth, 
Which  slept  a  secret  deep  as  death, 

Unknown  to  men  forlorn, 
Till  a  seer  touched  a  jasper  lid 
In  a  sand-sunken  pyramid, 
And  out  the  oracular  secret  slid, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 

Zarathustra,  Bactria's  king,  next  said, 
"  When  in  the  sky's  blue  garden-bed 
A  lily-petal ed  star  shall  fold 
A  human  shape,  the  gift  foretold 

Shall  blossom  and  be  born  : 
Then  shall  the  world-tides  flow  reversed, 
New  gods  shall  i-ise,  the  last  be  first, 
And  the  best  come  from  out  the  worst, 

As  night  gives  birth  to  morn.' 


HENR  Y  BERNARD  CARPENTER.  95 

II. 

So  while  the  drowsed  earth  swooned  and  slept 
Mute  holy  men  their  vigils  kept, 
By  twelve  and  twelve  :  as  light  decayed, 
They  marked  through  evening's  rosy  shade 

The  curled  moon's  coming  horn, 
All  stars  that  fed  in  silent  flock, 
And  each  tossed  meteor's  back-blown  lock. 
So  watched  they  from  their  wind-swept  rock, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 

Slow  centuries  passed ;  at  last  there  came 
By  night  a  dawn  of  silver  flame, 
Whose  flower-like  heart  grew  white  and  round 
To  a  smooth,  perfect  pearl,  with  sound 

Of  music-planet  born, 
In  whose  clear  disk  a  fair  child  lay, 
And  "  Follow  me  "  was  heard  to  say  : 
Round  him  the  pale  stars  fled  away 

As  night  before  the  morn. 

Forthwith  from  morning's  crimson  gate 
The  Three  Kings  rode  in  morning  state 
Across  Ulai's  storied  stream, 
With  westward  wistful  eyes  agleam, 

As  pilgrim's  westward  borne, 
They  left  the  tide  to  sing  old  deeds, 
The  stork  to  plash  half-hid  in  reeds : 
A  thousand  spears,  a  thousand  steeds, 

They  rode  'twixt  night  and  morn. 

in. 

Melchior  had  coat  and  shoes  of  red, 
And  a  pure  alb  sewn  with  gold  thread ; 
Beneath  a  tire  of  Syrian  mode 
Streamed  the  soft  storm  of  hair  that  snowed 

From  cheek  and  chin  unshorn ; 
Down  to  the  ground  his  saffron  pall 
Fell  as  warm  sunbeams  earthward  fall, 
And  he  sun-like,  seemed  king  of  all, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 


96  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Red-robed,  red-sandaled,  golden-clad, 
Came  Gaspar,  beardless  as  a  lad: 
Through  his  fair  hair's  divided  sti-eam 
His  red  cheeks  glowed  as  poppies  gleam 

Through  sheaves  of  yellow  corn. 
Love's  life  in  him  was  scarce  fulfilled, 
Like  as  when  daybreak  shadows  yield 
Night's  iron  lids  lie  half  unsealed 

In  colours  of  the  morn. 

Bronzed  Balthasar,  with  beard  thick-fed, 
Came  last,  in  tunic  royal  red 
And  broidered  alb  and  yellow  shoon. 
With  him  life's  rose  had  touched  its  noon, 

And  died  and  left  the  thorn, — 
Which  proved  by  its  sharp,  thrilling  heat 
That  larger  life  is  less  complete 
Till  the  heart's  bitter  grows  to  sweet, 

As  night  melts  into  morn. 

IV. 

Said  Melchior,  "  In  blue  silk  I  fold 
The  rock's  best  fruit,  red-hearted  gold  : 
So  grant  us,  mighty  Mother  East, 
One  who  shall  raise  thy  power  decreased, 

And  break  Rome's  pride  and  scorn, 
Till  our  red,  wine-warm  world  hath  sent 
Its  breath  through  the  cold  West,  and  blent 
The  Orient  with  the  Occident 

In  one  wide  sea  of  morn." 

Said  Gaspar,  "  I  bring  frankincense 
From  Caraman's  hills,  whose  thickets  dense 
Hide  the  balm-bleeding  bark  which  feeds 
The  fuming  shrine  with  fragrant  seeds  : 

So  may  this  child,  when  born, 
Be  Love's  high  Lord,  and  yield  his  love 
As  incense,  and  draw  down  the  Dove 
To  crown  his  brows  in  sign  thereof, 

Betwixt  the  ni<2rht  and  morn." 


HENR  Y  BERNARD  CARPENTER.  97 

Said  Balthasar,  "  And  I  bring  myrrh, 
In  death  and  life  man's  minister ; 
Which  braves  decay  as  burial-balm, 
Or,  mixed  with  wine,  brings  the  deep  calm 

Which  power  and  love  both  scorn  : 
Such  be  this  child, — God's  answering  breath 
To  the  one  prayer  the  whole  world  saith, 
'  Oh,  grant  us  myrrh  for  pain  and  death, 

Betwixt  our  night  and  morn.' " 

v. 

Twice  fifty  se'nnights  o'er  them  bent 
The  fierce  blue  weight  of  firmament. 
Through  sea-like  sands  they  still  pursued 
The  unsetting  star,  until  it  stood 

Above  where,  travail-worn, 
A  new-made  mother  smiled,  whose  head 
Lay  near  the  stalled  ox,  as  she  fed 
Her  babe  from  her  warm  heart,  on  bed 

Of  straw,  'twixt  night  and  morn. 

As  day  new-sprung  from  drooping  day, 
Near  her  in  shining  light  He  lay, 
And  made  the  darkness  beautiful. 
Couched  on  low  straw  and  flakes  of  wool 

From  Bethlehem's  lambs  late-shorn, 
He  seemed  a  star  which  clouds  enfold, 
Swathed  with  soft  fire  and  aureoled 
With  sun-born  beams  of  tender  gold, 

The  very  star  of  morn. 

At  her  son's  feet  the  kingly  Three 
Laid,  with  bowed  head  and  bended  knee, 
Their  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
Nor  tarried, — so  the  interpreter 

Of  God's  dream  once  did  warn, — 
But  hied  them  home  ere  the  day  broke ; 
While  without  awe  the  neighbour  folk 
Flocked  to  the  door  and  looked  and  spoke, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn. 
G 


9$  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

VI. 

A  tall  centurion  first  drew  near, 
Brass-booted,  on  whose  crest  sat  Fear. 
He  bent  low  to  the  fragrant  bed, 
With  beard  coal-black  and  cheek  rust-red, 

And  each  palm  hard  as  horn ; 
Quoth  he,  "  Our  old  gods'  empire  shakes, 
Mehercule  !     Now  this  babe  o'ertakes 
All  that  our  Venus-Mother  makes 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

A  shepherd  spake  :  "  Behold  the  Lamb, 
Who  ere  He  reign  as  heaven's  I  AM 
Must  undergo  and  overcome, 
As  sheep  before  the  shearers  dumb, 

Unfriended,  faint,  forlorn. 
Him  then  as  King  the  skies  shall  greet, 
And  with  strewn  stars  beneath  His  feet 
This  Lamb  shall  couch  in  God's  gold  seat, 

And  rule  from  night  to  morn." 

A  woman  of  the  city  came, 
Who  said,  "  In  me  hope  conquers  shame. 
Four  names  in  this  'child's  line  shall  be 
As  signs  to  all  who  love  like  me, — 

God  pities  where  men  scorn  : 
Dame  Rahab,  Bathshebah,  forsooth, 
Tamar,  whose  love  outloved  man's  truth, 
And  she  cast  out,  sweet  alien  Ruth, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

VII. 

Next  Joseph,  spouse  of  Mary,  came, — 
Joseph  Bar-Panther  was  his  name, — 
Who  said,  "  This  babe,  Lord  God,  is  Thine 
Only  begotten  Son  divine, 

As  Thou  didst  me  forewarn  ; 
And  I  will  stand  beside  His  throne, 
And  all  the  lands  shall  be  His  own 
Which  the  sun  girds  with  burning  zone, 

And  leads  from  night  to  morn." 


HENRY  BERNARD  CARPENTER.  99 

Said  Zaoharias,  "  Love  and  will 
With  God  make  all  things  possible. 
Shall  God  be  childless  ?     God  unwed  ? 
Nay ;  see  God's  first-born  in  this  bed 

Which  kings  with  gifts  adorn. 
I  would  this  babe  might  be  at  least 
As  I,  an  incense-burning  priest, 
Till  all  man's  incense-fires  have  ceased, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

Whereat  his  wife  Elisabeth  : 
"  My  thoughts  are  on  the  myrrh,  since  death 
Shades  my  sere  cheek,  which,  as  a  shore, 
Is  wrought  with  wrinkles  o'er  and  o'er. 

Now  be  this  child  new-born 
A  prophet,  like  my  prophet-boy, — 
A -voice  to  shake  down  and  destroy 
Throne,  shrine,  each  carved  and  painted  toy, 

Betwixt  the  night  and  morn." 

But  Mary,  God's  pure  lily,  smiled : 
"  Lord,  with  Thy  manhood  crown  my  child, — 
More  man,  more  God ;  for  they  who  shine 
Most  human  shall  be  most  divine. 

Of  those  I  think  no  scorn, 
King,  prophet,  priest,  when  worlds  began ; 
But  higher  than  these  my  prayer  and  plan  : 
Oh,  make  my  child  the  Perfect  Man, 

The  Star  'twixt  night  and  morn." 


LOVE'S  INFINITE  MADE  FINITE. 

OH,  there  are  moments  in  man's  mortal  years, 
When  for  an  instant  that  which  long  has  lain 
Beyond  our  reach,  is  on  a  sudden  found 
In  things  of  smallest  compass,  and  we  hold 
The  unbounded  shut  in  one  small  minute's  space, 
And  worlds  within  the  hollow  of  our  hand, — 


ioo  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A  world  of  music  in  one  word  of  love, 
A  world  of  love  in  one  quick  wordless  look, 
A  world  of  thought  in  one  translucent  phrase, 
A  world  of  memory  in  one  mournful  chord, 
A  world  of  sorrow  in  one  little  song. 
Such  moments  are  man's  holiest, — the  full-orbed 
And  finite  form  of  Love's  infinity. 
From,  "Liber  Amoris." 


THE  CREED  OF  LOVE. 

A  MIGHTIER  church  shall  come,  whose  covenant  word 
Shall  be  the  deeds  of  love.     Not  Credo  then, — 
Amo  shall  be  the  password  through  its  gates. 
Man  shall  not  ask  his  brother  any  more, 
"  Believest  thou  ?  "  but  "  Lovest  thou  ? "  and  all 
Shall  answer  at  God's  altar,  "  Lord,  I  love." 
For  Hope  may  anchor,  Faith  may  steer,  but  Love, 
Great  Love  alone,  is  captain  of  the  soul. 
From  "Liber  Amoris." 


THE  SENSE  OF  LOSS. 

WHEN  the  first  minstrel  winds  of  winter  lay 
Their  wild  hands  on  the  leafless  boughs,  which  heave 
With  slow-drawn  sighs,  till  all  the  forest  harp 
Wails  o'er  the  buried  autumn  and  lets  loose 
The  sea-like  music  of  eternity; 
Then  if  perchance  thou  wanderest  forth  alone 
Toward  the  sad  setting  of  the  autumnal  day, 
Across  the  darkening  spirit's  instrument 
There  comes  the  rush  of  sad  and  tender  thoughts 
And  wild  regrets  and  mournful  memories ; 
And  lamentations  and  deep  dirge-like  airs 
Awake  within  thee  for  sweet  summers  gone 
And  the  dead  faces  and  the  buried  years 


ROBERT  KELLY  WEEKS.  101 

That  never  can  return.     All,  all  is  lost ; 
Surge  upon  surge  of  tempest-driven  stars 
Seems  sinking  to  the  tomb  whither  great  God 
Waits  to  descend  :  'tis  Nature's  burial-day. 
Such,  such  was  I  in  spirit  at  that  hour ; 
With  desolation  darker  even  than  this, 
I  folded  me  about.     What  now  was  left  ? 
Father  and  friend  and  love  and  hope  and  all 
Reft  from  me,  grief  and  memory  but  remained. 
In  these  I  clothed  my  thoughts,  on  these  I  fed, 
With  these  I  walked  and  talked ;  till  sorrow  grew 
To  be  a  sort  of  joy  to  my  sad  soul, 
And  desolation  well-nigh  a  delight. 
From  "  Liber  Amoris." 


ROBERT  KELLY  WEEKS. 

[Born  in  New  York  City,  21st  September  1840.  Died  in  New 
York,  13th  April  1876.  Graduated  at  Yale,  1862.  Author  of 
Poems  (New  York,  1866) ;  Episodes  and  Lyric  Pieces  (1870), 
and  others.  The  poems  given  are  from  the  collected  edition 
of  his  poems,  published  by  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  with  whose  kind 
permission  they  are  quoted.] 

B  Y  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  MOON. 

THE  boughs  that  bend  over, 

The  vines  that  aspire 
To  be  close  to  your  window 

Prevent  my  desire. 

Come  forth  from  them,  darling  ! 

Enough  'tis  to  bear 
That  between  us  be  even 

Impalpable  air ! 


102  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


ON  THE  BEACH. 

THANKS  to  a  few  clouds  that  show 
So  white  against  the  blue, 

At  last  even  I  begin  to  know 
What  I  was  born  to  do ; 

What  else  but  here  to  lie 
And  bask  me  in  the  sun  ? 

Well  pleased  to  see  the  sails  go  by 
In  silence  one  by  one ; 

Or  lovingly,  along  the  low 

Smooth  shore  no  plough  depraves, 
To  watch  the  long  low  lazy  flow 

Of  the  luxurious  waves. 


THE   MIST. 

I  SAW  along  the  lifeless  sea 
A  mist  come  creeping  stealthily, 
Without  a  noise  and  slow, 
A  crouching  mist  came  crawling  low 
Along  the  lifeless  sea. 

None  marked  that  creeping,  crawling  mist 
That  crawled  along  the  sea, 
That  crept  and  crawled  so  stealthily 
And  was  so  weak  and  white ; 
The  moon  was  shining  clear,  I  wist, 
Above  it  in  the  night. 

I  saw  it  creeping,  crawling  low, 
Slow  crawling  from  the  sea, 
I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  grow 
Till  all  the  stifled  earth  below 
Was  shrouded  silently  : 


ROBERT  KELLY  WEEKS.  103 

I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  grow, 
A  forceless,  formless  thing. 
Determined,  tireless,  ceaseless,  slow, 
Silent  and  silencing.; 
I  saw  it  creep  and  crawl  and  rise 
And  crawl  into  the  skies ; 

The  stars  began  to  faint  and  fail, 
That  were  so  pure  and  clear ; 
The  moon  took  on  a  loathsome  look 
Of  likeness  to  her  fear — 
That  closer  crawled  and  clung  to  her 
And  clung  more  near  and  near. 

The  smothered  moon  went  out  and  left 

Not  even  the  mist  to  see, 

Mere  blankness,  and  a  sickening  sense 

Of  something  worse  to  be ; 

And  certainly  in  midst  of  it 

An  awful  thing  I  wist, 

It  was  to  know  that  all  the  world 

Was  nothing  but  a  mist 

But  a  creeping,  crawling  mist 


A    RAINY  DA  Y. 

A  WIND  that  shrieks  to  the  window  pane, 

A  wind  in  the  chimney  moaning, 
A  wind  that  tramples  the  ripened  grain, 

And  sets  the  trees  a-groaning ; 
A  wind  that  is  dizzy  with  whirling  play, 
A  dozen  winds  that  have  lost  their  way 

In  spite  of  the  other's  calling. 
A  thump  of  apples  on  the  ground, 
A  nutter  and  flurry  and  whirling  round 

Of  leaves  too  soon  a-dying ; 


104  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A  tossing  and  streaming  like  hair  unbound 

Of  the  willow  boughs  a-flying  ; 
A  lonely  road  and  a  gloomy  lane, 
An  empty  lake  that  is  blistered  with  rain, 
And  a  heavy  sky  that  is  falling. 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 

[Born  at  Windsor,  Connecticut,  29th  April  1841.  Died  at  Cleve 
land,  Ohio,  27th  February  1887.  Graduated  at  Yale,  1861. 
Author  of  The  Hermitage,  and  other  Poems  (1868,  Leypoldt 
&  Holt,  New  York) ;  Poems  (1888,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
Boston).  The  poems  given  are  quoted  from  the  latter  volume 

/        with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

OPPORTUNITY. 

THIS  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream  : — 

Tli ere  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain ; 

And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 

A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 

Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.     A  prince's  banner 

Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 

And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel — 

That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears, — but  this 

Blunt  thing  ! — he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand. 

And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 

And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 

Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand, 

And  ran  and  snatched  it,  and  with  battle-shout 

Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 

And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL.  105 


FIVE   LIVES. 

FIVE  mites  of  monads  dwelt  in  a  round  drop 
That  twinkled  on  a  leaf  by  a  pool  in  the  sun. 
To  the  naked  eye  they  lived  invisible ; 
Specks,  for  a  world  of  whom  the  empty  shell 
Of  a  mustard-seed  had  been  a  hollow  sky. 

One  was  a  meditative  monad,  called  a  sage ; 
And,  shrinking  all  his  mind  within,  he  thought : 
Tradition,  handed  down  for  hours  and  hours, 
Tells  that  our  globe,  this  quivering  crystal  world, 
Is  slowly  dying.     What  if,  seconds  hence 
When  I  am  very  old,  yon  shimmering  doom 
Come  drawing  down  and  down,  till  all  things  end  ? " 
Then  with-  a  wizen  smirk  he  proudly  felt 
No  other  mote  of  God  had  ever  gained 
Such  giant  grasp  of  universal  truth. 

One  was  a  transcendental  monad ;  thin 

And  long  and  slim  of  the  mind ;  and  thus  he  mused  : 

"  Oh  vast,  unfathomable  monad-souls  ! 

Made  in  the  image  " — a  hoarse  frog  croaks  from  the  pool, 

"  Hark  !  'twas  some  god,  voicing  his  glorious  thought 

In  thunder  music  !     Yea,  we  hear  their  voice, 

And  we  may  guess  their  minds  from  ours,  their  work. 

Some  taste  they  have  like  ours,  some  tendency 

To  wriggle  about,  and  munch  a  trace  of  scum." 

He  floated  up  on  a  pin-point  bubble  of  gas 

That  burst,  pricked  by  the  air,  and  he  was  gone. 

One  was  a  barren-minded  monad,  called 
A  positivist ;  and  he  knew  positively  ; 
"  There  was  no  world  beyond  this  certain  drop. 
Prove  me  another  !     Let  the  dreamers  dream 
Of  their  faint  gleams,  and  noises  from  without, 
And  higher  and  lower;  life  is  life  enough." 
Then  swaggering  half  a  hair's  breadth  hungrily 
He  seized  upon  an  atom  of  bug,  and  fed. 


106  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS, 

One  was  a  tattered  monad,  called  a  poet ; 

And  with  shrill  voice  estatic  thus  he  sang. 

"  Oh,  little  female  monad's  lips  ! 

Oh,  little  female  monad's  eyes  ! 

Ah,  the  little,  little,  female,  female  monad  ! " 

The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria, 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  wildly  spun  and  dove, 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  breath  to  see. 

But  while  they  led  their  wondrous  little  lives 

Ionian  moments  had  gone  wheeling  by, 

The  burning  drop  had  shrunk  with  fearful  speed  ; 

A  glistening  film — 'twas  gone ;  the  leaf  was  dry. 

The  little  ghost  of  an  inaudible  squeak 

Was  lost  to  the  frog  that  goggled  from  his  stone; 

Who,  at  the  huge,  slow  tread  of  a  thoughtful  ox 
Coming  to  drink,  stirred  sideways  fatly,  plunged, 
Launched  backward  twice,  and  all  the  pool  was  still. 


THE  FOOL'S  PRA  YER. 

THE  Royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  King 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried  :  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now,  and  make  for  us  a  prayer  !  " 

The  Jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before ; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 
Upon  the  Monarch's  silken  stool ; 

His  pleading  voice,  "  O  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL.  107 

"  No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool — 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin ;  but,  Lord, 
Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"  'Tis  not  by  guilt  the  onward,  sweep 
Of  truth  and  right,  O  Lord,  we  stay ; 

'Tis  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

"  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard — well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 

Among  a  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"The  ill-timed  truth  we  might  have  kept — 
Who  knows  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung  1 

The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say — 
Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung  ? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all ; 

But  for  our  blunders — oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  heaven  we  fall. 

"Earth  bears  no  balsams  for  mistakes; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool 
That  did  his  will ;  but  thou,  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 

The  room  was  hushed  ;  in  silence  rose 
The  King,  and  sought  his  gardens  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool !  " 


1 08  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS, 


JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE. 

[Born  at  Hubbardston,  Mass.,  8th  October  1841.  Graduated  at 
Harvard.  Author  of  Summer  Haven  Songs  (1886,  New  York, 
Geo.  Putnam  &  Sons).  The  poems  are  quoted,  by  special  per 
mission,  from  this  volume.] 

THE  ERRAND. 

Do  me  a  courtesy 

Thou  tall  white  rose  : 

Nobody  knows 
How  the  rain  comes  down 

In  the  town. 

Now,  in  my  mind,  I  see 

A  deep-eyed  girl 

Watching  the  whirl, 
From  her  window-pane, 

Of  the  rain. 

Slender  as  thou  is  she 

All  ways  as  pure, — 

As  white,  be  sure, — 
With  thy  perfect  grace 

In  her  face. 

Do  me  a  courtesy 

Thou  artless  rose : 

Nobody  knows 
How  the  rain  comes  down 

In  the  town. 

Knowing  her  value,  she 

Has  still  no  art, — 

Opening  her  heart 
For  the  common  eye 

To  espy. 

All  know  as  well  as  we, 

The  secret  troth 

Rending  us  both, 
Or  they  would  surmise 

From  her  eyes. 


JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE.         .         109 

Go  thou,  and,  secretly, 

In  thine  own  way 

Tell  her,  this  day 
Though  so  dark,  it  is  white 

By  her  light. 

Do  me  this  courtesy 

Thou  silent  rose : 

Nobody  knows 
How  the  rain  comes  down 

In  the  town. 


WAITING  IN  THE  RAIN. 

DRIP,  drip,  the  rain  comes  falling, 
Rain  in  the  woods,  rain  on  the  sea ; 

Even  the  little  waves,  beaten,  come  crawling 
As  if  to  find  shelter  here  with  me. 

This  is  the  spot  she  named  for  parting, — 
Here  to  shake  hands  and  go  in  pain ; 

Never  to  kiss,  though  our  souls  be  smarting, — 
Here  by  the  little  waves,  here  in  the  rain. 

And  oh  to  think  of  the  bygone  blisses — 
One  at  first,  and  a  thousand  soon ; 

Fond,  sweet  glances,  and  stolen  kisses, 

At  twilight,  starlight,  at  midnight,  and  noon  ! 

Rain,  rain,  it  rained  for  ever, 

Rain  could  not  sunder  hearts  so  fond ! 

Now  in.  the  rain  to  go  parting,  and  never 
Never  to  meet  till  dark  Beyond  ! 

Here  in  the  rain,  the  great  sea  throbbing — 
Here  can  hearts  meet  and  love  not  wake? 

Here  in  the  rain,  the  pine  boughs  sobbing — 
How  can  hearts  sever  and  yet  not  break  ? 


no  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

SONG. 

FAME. 

ALL  over  the  world  we  sing  of  Fame 

Bright  as  a  bubble,  and  hollow; 
With  a  breath  men  make  it  and  give  it  a  name  ; 
All  over  the  world  they  sing  the  same, 

And  the  beautiful  babble  follow. 

Its  rounded,  splendid,  gossamer  walls 
Hide  more  than  our  fairy  fancies : 
For  here,  in  the  vaulted,  antique  halls, 
'Mid  oriel  splendours,  a  light  foot  falls, 
And  a  fairy  figure  dances. 

And  men  will  do  for  a  glancing  eye 

And  foot  that  tarries  never, 
More,  far  more  than  look  and  sigh  ; 
For  men  will  fight,  and  man  will  die — 

But  follow  it  on  for  ever. 


WHO  KNO  WS. 

JUNE  leaves  are  green,  pink  is  the  rose, 
White  bloom  the  lilies ;  yet  who  knows, 
Or  swears  he  knows  the  reason  why  1 
None  dare  say — "  L" 

The  oriole,  flitting  stoops  and  sips 
A  soft  sweet  kiss  from  the  lily's  lips : — 
Who  taught  the  oriole  to  steal  so  ? 
Xone  say  they  know. 

Whether  the  oriole  stops  and  thinks, 
Or  whether  he  simply  stoops  and  drinks, 
Saying  only  it  suits  him  well, — 
This  who  can  tell? 


JAMES  HERBERT  MORSE.  1 1 1 

We  marvel  whither  this  life  stream  tends, 
And  how  remote  are  its  hidden  ends ; — 
But  life  and  loving  soon  slip  over 
Time  and  the  lover. 

A  kiss  is  all ; — a  sip  and  a  song, 
A  day  is  short,  and  a  year  is  not  long. 
Loving  would  double — but  thinking  stole 
Half  from  the  whole. 


LABOUR  AND  LIFE. 

How  to  labour  and  find  it  sweet : 
How  to  get  the  good  red  gold 
That  veined  hides  in  the  granite  fold 

Under  our  feet — 
The  good  red  gold  that  is  bought  and  sold, 

Raiment  to  man,  and  house,  and  meat ! 

And  how,  while  delving,  to  lift  the  eye 
To  the  far-off  mountains  of  amethyst, 
The  rounded  hills,  and  the  intertwist 

Of  waters  that  lie 
Calm  in  the  valleys,  or  that  white  mist 

Sailing  across  a  soundless  sky. 


THE  POWER  OF  BEAUTY. 

THOU  needst  not  weave  nor  spin 
Nor  bring  the  wheat-sheaves  in, 
Nor,  forth  a-field  at  morn, 
At  eve  bring  home  the  corn, 
Nor  on  a  winter's  night 
Make  blaze  the  faggots  bright. 


H2  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

So  lithe  and  delicate — 
So  slender  is  thy  state, 
So  pale  and  pure  thy  face, 
So  deer-like  in  their  grace 
Thy  limbs,  that  all  do  vie 
To  take  and  charm  the  eye. 

Thus,  toiling  where  thou'rt  not 
Is  but  the  common  lot : — 
Three  men  mayhap  alone 
By  strength  may  move  a  stone 
But,  toiling  near  to  thee, 
One  man  may  work  as  three. 

If  thou  but  bend  a  smile 
To  fall  on  him  the  while, 
Or  if  one  tender  glance, — 
Though  coy  and  shot  askance, — 
His  eyes  discover,  then 
One  man  may  work  as  ten. 

Men  commonly  but  ask 
"When  shall  I  end  my  task?" 
But  seeing  thee  come  in 
'Tis,  "  When  may  I  begin  ? " 
Such  power  does  beauty  bring 
To  take  from  toil  its  sting. 

If  then  thou'lt  do  but  this — 
Fling  o'er  the  work  a  bliss 
From  thy  mere  presence — none 
Shall  think  thou'st  nothing  done ; 
Thou  needst  not  weave  nor  spin 
Nor  bring  the  wheat-sheaves  in. 


CINCINNATUS  HINER  MILLER.  113 


CINCINNATUS  HINER  MILLER 
(JOAQUIN  MILLER). 

[Born  in  the  Wabash  District,  Indiana,  10th  November  1841. 
Author  of  Songs  of  the  Sierras  (Boston  and  London,  1871)  ; 
Songs  of  the  Sunlands  (1873) ;  Songs  of  the  Desert  (1875)  ; 
Songs  of  Italy  (1878) ;  Collected  Poems  (1882) ;  and  Songs  of  the 
Mexican  Seas.  The  poems  quoted  are  from  the  collected 
edition  of  his  works,  and  are  published  by  kind  permission  of 
Roberts  Brothers,  Boston  and  London.] 

THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT. 

A  MAN  in  Middle  Arizone 

Stood  by  the  desert's  edge  alone, 
And  long  he  looked,  and  leaned.     He  peer'd, 
Above  his  twirl'd  and  twisted  beard, 
Beneath  his  black  and  slouchy  hat  .   .  . 
Nay,  nay,  the  tale  is  not  of  that. 

A  skin-clad  trapper,  toe-a-tip, 
Stood  on  a  mountain  top,  and  he 
Look'd  long  and  still  and  eagerly. 
"  It  looks  so  like  some  lonesome  ship 
That  sails  this  ghostly,  lonely  sea, — 
This  dried-up  desert  sea,"  said  he, 
"  Those  tawny  sands  of  Arazit  "... 
Avaunt !  the  tale  is  not  of  it. 

A  chief  from  out  the  desert's  rim 
Rode  swift  as  twilight  swallows  swim, 
Or  eagle  blown  from  eyrie  nest. 
His  trim-limb'd  steed  was  black  as  night, 
His  long  black  hair  had  blossom'd  white, 
With  feathers  from  the  Koko's  crest ; 
His  iron  face  was  flush'd  and  red, 
His  eyes  flash'd  fire  as  he  fled, 
•  For  he  had  seen  unsightly  things ; 

Had  felt  the  flapping  of  their  wings. 
H 


114  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

A  wild  and  wiry  man  was  he, 
This  tawny  chief  of  Shoshonee  ; 
And  oh  his  supple  steed  was  fleet ! 
About  his  breast  flapp'd  panther  skins, 
About  his  eager  flying  feet 
Flapp'd  beaded,  braided  moccasins  : 
He  rode  as  rides  the  hurricane ; 
He  seem'd  to  swallow  up  the  plain ; 
He  rode  as  never  man  did  ride, 
He  rode,  for  ghosts  rode  at  his  side, 
And  on  his  right  a  grizzled  grim  .   .   . 
No,  no,  this  tale  is  not  of  him. 

An  Indian  warrior  lost  his  way 

While  prowling  on  this  desert's  edge 

In  fragrant  sage  and  prickly  hedge, 

When  suddenly  he  saw  a  sight, 

And  turned  his  steed  in  eager  flight. 

He  rode  right  through  the  edge  of  day, 

He  rode  into  the  rolling  night, 

He  leaned,  he  reach'd  an  eager  face, 

His  black  wolf  skin  flapp'd  out  and  in, 

And  tiger  claws  on  tiger  skin 

Held  seat  and  saddle  to  its  place ; 

But  that  grey  ghost  that  clutched  thereat  . 

Arrete  !  the  tale  is  not  of  that. 

A  chieftain  touch'd  the  desert's  rim 

One  autumn  eve  :  he  rode  alone 

And  still  as  noon-made  shadows  swim. 

He  stopp'd,  he  stood  as  still  as  stone, 

He  leaned,  he  look'd,  then  glisten'd  bright 

From  out  the  yellow  yielding  sand 

A  golden  cup  with  jewell'd  rim. 

He  leaned  him  low,  he  reached  a  hand, 

He  caught  it  up,  he  galloped  on, 

He  turned  his  head,  he  saw  a  sight  .  .  . 

His  panther  skins  flew  to  the  wind, 

The  dark,  the  desert  lay  behind ; 


CINCINNATUS  HINER  MILLER.  115 

The  tawny  Ishmaelite  was  gone ; 

But  something  sombre  as  death  is  ... 

Tut,  tut !  the  tale  is  not  of  this. 

A  mountaineer,  storm-stained  and  brown, 

From  farthest  desert  touched  the  town, 

And,  striding  through  the  crowd,  held  up 

Above  his  head  a  jewell'd  cup. 

He  put  two  fingers  to  his  lip, 

He  whispered  wild,  he  stood  a-tip 

And  leaned  the  while  with  lifted  hand, 

And  said,  "  A  ship  is  yonder  dead," 

And  said,  "  Doubloons  lie  sown  on  sand 

In  yon  far  desert  dead  and  brown, 

Beyond  where  wave-wash'd  walls  look  down, 

As  thick  as  stars  set  overhead  : 

That  three  shipmasts  uplift  like  trees  "... 

Away  !  the  tale  is  not  of  these. 

An  Indian  hunter  held  a  plate 

Of  gold  above  his  lifted  head, 

Around  which  king's  had  sat  in  state  .   .  . 

"  'Tis  from  that  desert  ship,"  they  said, 

"  That  sails  with  neither  sail  nor  breeze, 

Or  galleon,  that  sank  below 

Of  old,  in  olden  dried-up  seas, 

Ere  yet  the  red  men  drew  the  bow." 

But  wrinkled  women  wagg'd  the  head, 
And  walls  of  warriors  sat  that  night 
In  black,  nor  streak  of  battle  red, 
Around  against  the  red  camp  light, 
And  told  such  wondrous  tales  as  these 
Of  wealth  within  their  clried-up  seas. 

And  one,  girt  well  in  tiger's  skin, 

Who  stood,  like  Saul,  above  the  rest, 

With  dangling  claws  about  his  breast, 

A  belt  without,  a  blade  within, 

A  warrior  with  a  painted  face, 

And  lines  that  shaclow'd  stern  and  grim, 


1 1 6  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

Stood  pointing  east  from  his  high  place, 
And  hurling  thought  like  cannon  shot, 
Stood  high  with  visage  flushed  and  hot  . 
But,  stay,  this  tale  is  not  of  him. 

II. 

By  Arizona's  sea  of  sand 
Some  bearded  miners,  grey  and  old, 
And  resolute  in  search  of  gold, 
Sat  down  to  tap  the  savage  land. 

They  tented  in  a  canon's  mouth 
That  gaped  against  the  warm  wide  south, 
And  underneath  a  wave-washed  wall, 
Where  now  no  rains  nor  winds  may  fall, 
They  delved  the  level  salt-white  sands 
For  gold,  with  bold  and  horned  hands. 

A  miner  stood  beside  his  mine, 
He  pull'd  his  beard,  then  look'd  away 
Across  the  level  sea  of  sand, 
Beneath  his  broad  and  hairy  hand, 
A  hand  as  hard  as  knots  of  pine. 

"  It  looks  so  like  a  sea,"  said  he. 
He  pulled  his  beard,  and  he  did  say, 
"  It  looks  just  like  a  dried-up  sea." 
Again  he  pulled  that  beard  of  his, 
But  said  no  other  thing  than  this. 

A  stalwart  miner  dealt  a  stroke, 
And  struck  a  buried  beam  of  oak. 
An  old  ship's  beam,  the  shaft  appeared 
With  storm-worn  faded  figure-head. 

The  miner  twisted,  twirled  his  beard, 
Lean'd  on  his  pick-axe  as  he  spoke : 
"'Tis  from  some  long-lost  ship,"  he  said, 
"  Some  laden  ship  of  Solomon 
That  sailed  these  lonesome  seas  upon, 


CINCINNA  TUS  HINER  MILLER.  117 

In  search  of  Opher's  mine,  ah  me  ! 
That  sailed  this  dried-up  desert  sea." 
Nay,  nay,  'tis  not  a  tale  of  gold, 
But  ghostly  land  storm-slain  and  old. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER. 

AND  where  is  my  city,  sweet  blossom-sown  town  ? 

And  what  is  her  glory,  and  what  has  she  done  ? 

By  the  Mexican  seas  in  the  path  of  the  sun 
Sit  you  down  :  in  the  crescent  of  seas  sit  you  down. 

Ay,  glory  enough  by  my  Mexican  seas  ! 
A  story  enough  in  the  battle-torn  town 
Hidden  down  in  the  crescent  of  seas,  hidden  down 

'Mid  mantle  and  sheen  of  magnolia-strewn  trees. 

But  mine  is  the  glory  of  souls,  of  a  soul 

That  bartered  God's  limitless  kingdom  for  gold, — 
Sold  stars  and  all  space  for  a  thing  he  could  hold 

In  his  palm  for  a  day,  ere  he  hid  with  the  mole. 

0  Father  of  waters  !     O  river  so  vast ! 

So  deep,  so  strong,  and  so  wondrous  wild, — 
He  embraces  the  land  as  he  rushes  past 

Like  a  savage  father  embracing  his  child. 

His  sea-land  is  true  and  so  valiantly  true, 
His  leaf-land  is  fair  and  so  marvellous  fair, 
His  palm-land  is  filled  with  a  perfumed  air 

Of  magnolia's  blooms  to  its  dome  of  blue. 

His  rose-land  has  arbours  of  moss  swept  oak ; — 
Grey,  Druid  old  oaks ;  and  the  moss  that  sways 

And  swings  in  the  wind  is  the  battle  smoke 
Of  duellists,  dead  in  her  storied  days. 

His  love-land  has  churches  and  bells  and  chimes ; 

His  love-land  has  altars  and  orange-flowers ; 
And  that  is  the  reason  for  all  these  rhymes, 

These  bells,  they  are  ringing  through  all  the  hours. 


1 1 8  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

His  sun-land  has  churches,  and  priests  at  prayer, 
White  nuns,  as  white  as  the  far  north  snow  • 
They  go  where  danger  may  bid  them  go, — 

They  dare  when  the  angel  of  death  is  there. 

His  love-land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 

In  the  Creole  quarter,  with  great  black  eyes, — 

So  fair  that  the  mayor  must  keep  them  there 
Lest  troubles,  like  troubles  of  Troy,  arise. 

His  love-land  has  ladies,  with  eyes  held  down, 

Held  down,  because  if  they  lifted  them, 
Why  you  would  be  lost  in  that  old  French  town, 
•   Though  you  held  even  God's  garment  hem. 

His  love-land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 
That  they  bend  their  eyes  to  the  holy  book 

Lest  you  should  forget  yourself,  your  prayer, 
And  never  more  cease  to  look  and  to  look. 

And  these  are  the  ladies  that  no  man  see, 
And  this  is  the  reason  men  see  them  not, 

Better  their  modest  sweet  mystery, — 
Better  by  far  than  the  battle-shot. 

And  so,  in  this  curious  old  town  of  tiles, 

The  proud  French  quarter  of  days  long  gone, 

The  castles  of  Spain  and  tumble-down  piles, 
These  wonderful  ladies  live  on  and  on. 

I  sit  in  the  church  where  they  come  and  go ; 

I  dream  of  glory  that  has  long  since  gone, 
Of  the  low  raised  high,  of  the  high  brought  low, 

As  in  battle-torn  days  of  Napoleon. 

These  piteous  places,  so  rich,  so  poor ! 

One  quaint  old  church  at  the  edge  of  the  town 
Has  white  tombs  laid  to  the  very  church  door, — 

White  leaves  in  the  story  of  life  turned  down. 

White  leaves  in  the  story  of  life  are  these, 
The  low  white  slabs  in  the  long  strong  grass, 
,  Where  glory  has  emptied  her  hour-glass, 
And  dreams  with  the  dreamers  beneath  the  trees. 


CINCINNATUS  HINER  MILLER.  119 

I  dream  with  the  dreamers  beneath  the  sod, 

Where  souls  pass  by  to  the  great  white  throne ; 
I  count  each  tomb  as  a  mute  milestone 

For  weary,  sweet  souls  on  their  way  to  God. 

I  sit  all  day  by  the  vast,  strong  stream, 

'Mid  low  white  slabs  in  the  long  strong  grass, 
Where  time  has  forgotten  for  aye  to  pass, 

To  dream,  and  ever  to  dream  and  to  dream. 

This  quaint  old  church  with  its  dead  to  the  door, 
By  the  cypress  swamp  at  the  edge  of  the  town, 
So  restful  seems  that  you  want  to  sit  down 

And  rest  you,  and  rest  you  for  ever  more. 

And  one  white  tomb  is  a  lowliest  tomb 

That  has  crept  up  close  to  the  crumbling  door, 

Some  penitent  soul,  as  imploring  room 
Close  under  the  cross  that  is  leaning  o'er. 

'Tis  a  low  white  slab,  and  'tis  nameless,  too — 
Her  untold  story,  why,  who  should  know  ? 

Yet  God,  I  reckon,  can  read  right  through 
That  nameless  stone  to  the  bosom  below. 

And  the  roses  know  and  they  pity  her,  too ; 
They  bend  their  heads  in  the  sun  or  rain, 
And  they  read,  and  they  read,  and  then  read  again, 

As  children  reading  strange  pictures  through. 

Why,  surely  her  sleep  it  should  be  profound ; 

For  oh  the  apples  of  gold  above  ! 

And  oh  the  blossoms  of  bridal  love  ! 
And  oh  the  roses  that  gather  around  ! 

And  sleep  of  a  night,  or  a  thousand  morns  1 
Why,  what  is  the  difference  here  to-day  ? 
Sleeping  and  sleeping  the  years  away 

With  all  earth's  roses,  and  none  of  its  thorns. 

Magnolias  white  and  the  roses  red — 

The  palm-tree  here  arid  the  cypress  there : 

Sit  down  by  the  palm  at  the  feet  of  the  dead, 
And  hear  a  penitent's  midnight  prayer. 


120  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

FROM  THE  RHYME  OF  THE  GREAT  RIVER. 

PART  VII. 

SHE  prays  so  long  !     She  prays  so  late ! 

What  sin  in  all  this  flower-land 

Against  her  supplicating  hand 
Could  have  in  heaven  any  weight. 

Prays  she  for  her  sweet  self  alone  ? 
Prays  she  for  some  one  far  away, 
Or  some  one  near  and  dear  to-day, 

Or  some  poor,  lorn,  lost  soul  unknown  ? 

It  seems  to  me  a  selfish  thing 
To  pray  for  ever  for  one's  self ; 
It  seems  to  me  like  heaping  pelf 

In  heaven  by  hard  reckoning. 

Why,  I  would  rather  stoop,  and  bear 
My  load  of  sin,  and  bear  it  well, 
And  bravely  down  to  burning  hell, 

Than  ever  pray  one  selfish  prayer ! 


CHARITY. 

HER  hands  were  clasped  downward  and  doubled 
Her  head  was  held  down  and  depress'd, 

Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 
Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest ; 

Her  robes  were  all  dust,  and  disorder'd 

Her  glory  of  hair,  and  her  brow, 
Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 

Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 

In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 
Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 

With  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 


CINCINNATUS  PIINER  MILLER.  121 

All  crushed  and  stone-cast  in  behaviour 

She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand, 
Then  the  Saviour  bent  down,  and  the  Saviour 

In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 

What  wrote  He  1     How  fondly  one  lingers 

And  questions,  what  holy  command 
Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 

Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

O  better  the  Scian  uncherish'd 

Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 
Of  battle  was  fashion'd  than  perished 

This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  He  looked  on  the  daughter 

Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 
And -He  heard  the  revilers  that  brought  her — 

Men  stormy,  and  strong  as  a  tower ; 

And  He  said,  "  She  has  sinn'd  ;  let  the  blameless 
Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone  !  " 

But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shameless, 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us  1 
What  man  shall  condemn  and  disown  ? 

Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 
Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch  with  his  forefinger  there, 

And  say,  'Tis  as  snow,  as  a  blossom  1 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware  ! 

O  woman,  born  first  to  believe  us  ; 

Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget ; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us, 

Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret ! 

O  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 

Lo  !  first  where  the  Nazerene  trod, 
O  woman  !  0  beautiful  woman  ! 

Be  then  first  in  the  Kingdom  of  God ! 


122  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

TO  THE  LION  OF  SAINT  MARK. 
i. 

I  KNOW  you,  lion  of  grey  Saint  Mark  ; 
You  fluttered  the  seas  beneath  your  wing, 
Were  king  of  the  seas  with  never  a  king. 
Now  over  the  deep  and  up  in  the  dark, 
High  over  the  girdles  of  bright  gas-light, 
With  wings  in  the  air  as  if  for  flight, 
And  crouching  as  if  about  to  spring 
From  top  of  your  granite  of  Africa, — 
Say,  what  shall  be  said  of  you  some  day. 

II. 

What  shall  be  said,  O  grim  Saint  Mark, 
SaVage  old  beast  so  crossed  and  churl  ed, 
By  the  after  men  from  the  under-world  1 
What  shall  be  said  as  they  search  along 
And  sail  these  seas  for  some  sign  or  spark 
Of  the  old  dead  tires  of  the  dear  old  days, 
When  men  and  story  have  gone  their  ways, 
Of  even  your  city  and  name  from  song  ? 

in. 

Why,  sullen  old  monarch  of  stilled  Saint  Mark, 
Strange  men  from  the  West,  wise-mouthed  and  strong, 
Will  come  some  day  and,  gazing  long 
And  mute  with  wonder,  will  say  of  thee  : 
"  This  is  the  saint !     High  over  the  dark, 
Foot  on  the  Bible  and  great  teeth  bare, 
Tail  whipped  back  and  teeth  in  the  air — 
Lo  !  this  is  the  saint,  and  none  but  he  !  " 


CINCINNATUS  HINER  MILLER.  123 

PACE  IMPLORA. 


BETTER  it  were  to  abide  by  the  sea 

Loving  somebody,  and  satisfied  ; 

Better  it  were  to  grow  babes  on  the  knee, 

To  anchor  you  down  for  all  your  days, 

Than  to  wander  and  wander  in  all  these  ways 

Land-forgotten  and  love-denied. 

Yea,  better  to  live  as  the  mountaineers  live, 

Than  entreat  of  the  gods  what  they  will  not  give. 

II. 

Better  sit  still  where  born,  I  say, 

Wed  one  sweet  woman  and  love  her  well, 

Love  and  be  loved  in  the  old  East  way, 

Drink  sweet  waters,  and  dream  in  a  spell, 

Than  to  wander  in  search  of  the  Blessed  Isles, 

And  to  sail  the  thousand  of  watery  miles 

In  search  of  love,  and  find  you  at  last 

On  the  edge  of  the  world,  and  a  curs'd  outcast. 

in. 

Yea,  laugh  with  your  neighbours,  live  in  their  way 

Be  it  never  so  humble.     The  humbler  the  home, 

The  braver,  indeed,  to  brunt  the  fray. 

Share  their  delights  and  divide  your  tears, 

Love  and  be  loved  for  the  full  round  years, 

As  men  once  loved  in  the  young  world's  pride, 

Ere  men  knew  madness  and  came  to  roam, — 

When  they  lived  where  their  fathers  had  lived  and  died, 

Lived  and  so  loved  for  a  thousand  years. 

IV. 

Better  it  were  for  the  world,  I  say, 
Better  indeed  for  a  man's  own  good, 
That  he  should  sit  still  where  he  was  born, 
Be  it  land  of  sand,  or  of  oil  and  corn, 


124  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

White  sea-border  or  great  black  wood, 
Bleak  white  winter,  or  bland  sweet  May, — 
Than  to  wander  the  world  as  I  have  done, 
For  the  one  dear  woman  that  is  under  the  sun. 

v. 

Better  abide,  though  skies  be  dim, 

And  the  rivers  espoused  of  the  ice  and  snow ; 

Better  abide,  though  the  thistles  grow, 

And  the  city  of  smoke  be  obscured  of  the  sun, 

Than  to  seek  red  poppies  and  the  sweet  dreamland- 

Than  to  wander  the  world  as  I  have  to-day, 

Breaking  the  heart  into  bits  like  clay, 

And  leaving  it  scattered  upon  every  hand. 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

"  RUN?     Now  you  bet  you  ;  I  rather  guess  so  ! 
But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     "Whoa,  Pache,  boy,  whoa  ! 
No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his  eyes, 
But  he  is,  badger  blind,  and  it  happen'd  in  this  wise. 

"  We  lay  in  the  grasses  and  the  sunburnt  clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great  brown  cover 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and  away 
To  the  Brazos,  to  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  sea  of  brown, 
Awaiting  the  curtains  of  night  to  come  down 
To  cover  us  over  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian  town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride  of  a  night. 

"  We  lounged  in  the  grasses — her  eyes  were  in  mine, 
And  her  hand  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair  was  as  wine 
In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and  all  over 
Her  bosom  wine-red,  and  pressed  never  by  one ; 
And  her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the  clover 
Burnt  brown  as  it  reach'd  to  the  kiss  of  the  sun ; 


CINCINNA TUS  HINER  MILLER.  125 

And  her  words  were  as  low  as  the  lute-throated  dove ; 
And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart  when  it  beats 
In  its  hot  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of  sweets. 

"  We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 

Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 

And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  brown 

And  beautiful  clover  wore  wedded  as  one, 

To  the  right  and  the  left,  and  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 

Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 

Of  red  Comanches  are  hot  on  the  track 

When  once  they  strike  it.      '  Let  the  sun  go  down 

Soon,  very  soon,' — muttered  bearded  Old  Revels 

As  he  peer'd  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 

Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.     Then  he  jerked  at  his  steed 

And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 

And  then  dropped,  as  if  shot,  with  his  ear  on  the  ground  ; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 

While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 

His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 

And  his  voice  loud  and  shrill,  as  if  blown  from  a  reed — 

'  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  your  steed, 

And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 

And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride 

For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 

And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before, 

I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 

While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 

Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  there, 

As  a  hurricane  conies,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire.'— 

"  We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinch'd  them  on,  sinch'd  them  over  again, 
And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And  gold-mounted  Colts',  the  companions  of  years, 
Cast  the  silken  serapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 


126  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  so  bared  to  the  skin  sprang  all  haste  to  the  horse — 
As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God — without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 
Turn'd  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turn'd  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  air 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  bearing  death  in  his  course ; 
Turn'd  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call, 
Of  love-note  or  courage ;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 
Of  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 
With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 
Rode  we  on,  rode  we  three,  rode  we  nose  and  grey  nose, 
Reaching  long,  breathing  loud,  as  a  creviced  wind  blows  : 
Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breath'd  not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was  death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

"  Grey  nose  to  grey  nose,  and  each  steady  mustang 
Stretch 'd  neck  and  stretch'd  nerve  till  the  arid  earth  rang, 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the  neck 
Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 
Twenty   miles !   .  .  .  thirty  miles !   .   .  .   a  dim   distant 

speck  .  .  . 

Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look'd  to  my  right — 
But  Revels  was  gone ;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger :  I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 


CINCINNA  TUS  HINER  MILLER.  127 

Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher. 

And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 

The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 

Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 

Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 

And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 

Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 

While  his  keen  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his 

mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again ; 
And  I  look'd  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  lick'd  through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

"  I  look'd  to  my  left  then — and  nose,  neck,  and  shoulder 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs ; 

And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 

Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes, 

With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  with  a  look  of  despair 

And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 

And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 

Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 

To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 

Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as  dead. 

Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pache  still  lorded  his  head, 

With  a  look  of  delight ;  for  not  courage  nor  bribe, 

Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought  him  to  me. 

For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 

Had  once  won  a  whole  head,  sweeping  everything  down 

In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown. 

And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride — 

My  neighbour's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 

And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe — 

She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 

She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 

From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos  side ; 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 

As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 

The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 

T  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 


128  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos  side, 
And  await  her — and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 
Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 
And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 
Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as  she  fell 
From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 
The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 
That  I  should  escape — a  love — a  desire — 
Yet  never  a  word,  not  one  look  of  appeal, 
Lest  I  should  reach  hand,  should  stay  hand  or  stay  heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

"Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 

And  the  howling  of  beasts  and  a  sound  as  of  thunder — 

Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 

As  the  passionate  flame  reached  around  them  and  wove  her 

Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kiss'd  hot  till  they  died — 

Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 

As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone  .   .   . 

And  into  the  Brazos  ...  I  rode  all  alone — 

All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limb'd, 

And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 

Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 

And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide, 

Till  the  tide  block'd  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimm'd 

In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 

"Sell  Pache — blind  Pache?     Now,  mister  !  look  here  ! 
You  have  slept  in  my  tent  and  partook  of  my  cheer 
Many  days,  many  days,  on  this  rugged  frontier," 
For  the   ways  they  were  rough  and  Comanches   were 

near ; 

"But  you'd  better  pack  up,  sir  !     That  tent  is  too  small 
For  us  two  after  this  !     Has  an  old  mountaineer, 
Do  you  book-men  believe,  get  no  turn-turn  at  all  ? 
Sell  Pache  !     You  buy  him  !     A  bag  full  of  gold ! 
You  show  him  !     Tell  of  him  the  tale  I  have  told  ! 
Why,  he  bore  me  through  fire,  and  is  blind,  and  is  old  ! 
.  .  .  Now  pack  up  your  papers,  and  get  up  and  spin 
To  them  cities  you  tell  of  ...  Blast  you  and  your  tin  !  " 


CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON.  129 

CHARLES  M.  DICKINSON. 

[Born  at  Lowville,  New  York,  1842.  The  poein  given,  The  Children, 
was  for  many  years  printed  as  by  the  famous  novelist,  Charles 
Dickens.] 

THE  CHILDREN. 

WHEN  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  ; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace  ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last ; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin, 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 

And  the  fountain  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths  steep  and  stony, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 
Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild  ; 
Oh,  there's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households ; 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise  ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes ; 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven — 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild ; 
And  I  kuow  now  how  JESUS  could  liken 

The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child ! 
I 


130  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun ; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself ; 
Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God ; 
My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness, 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction  ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 

1  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more ; 
Ah  !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones, 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good-nights  "  and  the  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 

T  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says  :  "  The  school  is  dismissed 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  ! 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  1 3 1 


SIDNEY  LANIER. 

[Born  at  Macon,  Georgia,  3d  February  1842.  Lecturer  on  English 
Literature  at  the  John  Hopkin's  University,  Baltimore,  1879. 
Died  at  Lynn,  North  Carolina,  1881.  Author  of  Tiger  Lilies,  a 
Novel  (New  York,  Hunt  &  Houghton,  1867)  ;  The  Science  of 
English  Verse  (New  York,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1880) ;  The 
Enylish  Novel  and  the  Principles  of  its  Development  (New  York, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1883) ;  Poems,  edited  by  His  Wife  (New 
York,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1884),  etc.  The  poems  quoted 
below  are  all  taken  from  this  volume  with  the  kind  permission 
of  the  Messrs  Scribner.] 

SUNRISE— A  HYMN  OF  THE  MARSHES. 

IN  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 

Of  the  live  oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 

The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my 

sleep  ; 
Up  breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range  and 

of  sweep, 

Interwoven  with  wafture  of  wild  sea-liberties,  drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 

Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 

Then  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 
Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling : 

The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a-trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes, 
Shaken  with  happiness : 

The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,   my  beloved  !     I  might  not 

abide  : 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live-oaks,  to 

hide 

In  your  gospeling  glooms, — to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the  sea 

my  sea. 

Tell  me,  sweet  burly-bark'd,  man-bodied  Tree 
That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,  dost  know 
From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which  flow  1 


132  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

They   rise  not   from   reason,    but   deeper  inconsequent 

deeps. 

Reason's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of    the 

eyes  ? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters  !  like  as  ye  gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks  that 

emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 

So, 

(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I  could  know,) 
With    your1  question    embroid'ring    the    dark  of    the 

question  of  man, — 

So,  with  your  silence  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is  under 
the  ban, 

Under  the  ban, — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 

Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge, — yea,  ye  have 
taught  me, 

So, 

That  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know. 
Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me, — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring, — repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death, — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence, — preach  me 
The  passion  of  patience, — sift  me, — impeach  me, — 

And  there,  oh  there 
As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the 

air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 


SIDNEY  LANIER.  133 

My  gossip,  the  owl, — is  it  thou 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough, 
As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred  1 
Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird  ? 
Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 
Old  chemist,  wrapped  in  alchemy, 

Distilling  silence, — lo, 

That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know — 
The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter — thou 
Hast  found  it :  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 
This  solves  us  all  :  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace, 
Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence'  clear  solution  lie. 
Too  clear  !     That  crystal  nothing  who'll  peruse  1 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news. 
Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter  gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race 
Just  to  be  fellow'd,  when  that  thou  hast  found 
No  man  with  room  or  grace  enough  of  bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art, — 
'Tis  here,  'tis  here  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 
And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide's  at  full :  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning  stars.     The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy, — 

The  marsh  brags  ten  :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  ! 
Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 
To    this   bow-and-string-tension    of   beauty    and    silence 

a-spring, 

To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence  the 
string ! 


1 34  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'erblown  in  a  dream, — 
Yon  dome  of  too  tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of  night, 
Overweighted  with  stars,  overfreighted  with  light, 
Oversated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 
But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no  :  it  is  made  :  list !  somewhere, — mystery,  where  ? 
In  the  leaves  ?  in  the  air  1 
In  my  heart  ?  is  a  motion  made  : 

'Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  nicker  of  shade  on  shade. 
In  the  leaves  'tis  palpable  :  low  multitudinous  stirring 
Upwinds  through  the  woods ;  the  little  ones,  softly  con 
ferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for ;  so ;   they  are 

still ; 

But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  a-thrill, — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend  of 

the  river, — 

And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades, — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats, — and  steady  and 

free 
Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea — 

(Run  home,  little  streams, 

With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams), — 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail, 
And  lo,  in  the  East !     Will  the  East  unveil  ? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush  :  'tis  dead  ;  'tis  alive  :  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it :  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  unwithdrawn  : 
Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven  !     'Tis  Dawn. 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  135 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a  flush  is 

up-rolled : 

To  the  zenith  ascending,  a  dome  of  undazzling  gold 
Is  huilded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,  from  out  of  the  sea : 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 

The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 
Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea. 

Yet  now  the  dew-drop,  now  the  morning  grey 

Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day, 

Ere  with  the  Sun  their  souls  exhale  away. 

Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 

The  sumrn'd  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue 

Big  dew-drop  of  all  Heaven.     With  these  lit  shines, 

O'er-silvered  to  the  furthest  sea-confines, 

The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 

Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign 

Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild, 

Minded  of  naught  but  peace  and  of  a  Child. 

Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a  measure 
Of  motion,  not  faster  than  dateless  Olympian  leisure, — 
Might  pace  with  unblown  ample  garments  from  pleasure 

to  pleasure ; 

The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring,  unreeling, 
For  ever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  half  wise,  wholewise — 'tis  done  ! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun ! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul 
Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  morrows 

doth  roll, 
Cry  good,  and  past  good,  and  most  heavenly  morrow,  lord 

Sun ! 

O  Artisan,  born  in  the  purple, — Workman  Heat, 
Porter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet 
And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness,  innermost  Guest 
At  the  marriage  of  elements, — Fellow  of  publicans, — blest 


136  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 
The  idle  skies,  yet  labourest  fast  evermore  ; 
Thou,  in  the  fine  forge-thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou  Motive-Labourer  Heat 
Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest  perfectest  hues, 
Ever  shaming  the  maidens, — lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  grows 
In  the  clarified    virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 

It  is  thine,  it  is  thine ! 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving  the  winds  a-swirl 
Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth, — yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for  a  heart, 
"Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 
From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 
Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 
Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of ;  manifold  One, 
I  must  pass  from  thy  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face  of 

the  Sun  : 

Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a  frown ; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible  town. 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be  done ; 
I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun  : 
How  dark,  howdark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs  be  run, 

I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 

Oh  !  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-coloured  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 

And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with  know 
ledge  abide  thee, 

And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath  tried  thee, 
Labour,  at  leisure,  in  art,  till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 

The  day  being  done. 
December,  1880. 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  1 37 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GL  YNN. 

GLOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate  shades  of  the  vines  that  myriad  cloven 
Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs, — 
Emerald  twilights, — 
Virginal  shy  lights 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  dim  colon 
nades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea  marches  of  Glynn ; — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire, — 

Wild  wood -privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 

leaves, — 
Cells  of  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul 

that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good ; — 

O  braided  dusks  of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the 

vine, 
While  the  riotous  noon-day  sun  of  the  June-day  long  did 

shine 
Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in 

mine  : 

But  now  when  the  moon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  is  a-wait  at  the  ponderous  gate  of  the  West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down   the  wood-aisle  doth 

seem 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Aye,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul 

of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 


138  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Of  the  scythe  of  time,  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought 

me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but 

bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  unnamable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  miles  of  the  plain, — 

Oh,  now  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  grey  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 
dawn, 

For  a  mete  and  a  mark 
To  the  forest  dark  : — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low, — 

Thus — with  your  favour — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land  !) 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Free 
By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 

Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shimmer 
ing  band 

Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to  the 
folds  of  the  land. 

Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the 
beach-lines  linger  and  curl 

As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows 
the  firm,  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 

Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 

Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  the  dim  grey 
looping  of  light. 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  1 39 

And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward   the  wall  of  the 

woods  stands  high  1 
The  world  lies  east :  how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky  ! 
A  league  and  a  league  of  marsh-grass,  waist-high,  bread 

in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light  or 

a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea  ? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin, 
By  the  length   and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  nothing-with 

holding  and  free, 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves  to 

the  sea ! 
Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the  sea  and  the  rains  and  the 

sun, 
Ye  spread  and    span  like  the   catholic  man   who   hath 

mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge,  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of  God  : 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies  : 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-grass  sends  in  the  sod 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  a-hold  on  the  greatness  of  God  : 
Oh,  like  to  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of  Glynn. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh  :   lo  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast :  full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must  be  : 


140  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 

About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 

Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the 
low-lying  lanes 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 

That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essence  flow 

In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun  ! 

The  creeks  overflow  :  a  thousand  rivulets  run 

'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod :     The  blades  of  the  marsh- 
grass  stir, 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  westward  whirr ; 

Passeth  and  all  is  still ;  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 

And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  water  be  ! 
The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height: 
And  all  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  Vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken, 
The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn 


SONG  OF  THE  CHATTAHOOCHEE. 

OUT  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Down  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain, 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  1 4 1 

Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried,  Abide,  abide, 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall, 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide, 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Stay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide, 

Here  in  the  hills  of  Habersham 

Here  in  the  valley  of  Hall. 

High  over  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valley  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Overleaning,  with  nickering  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham: 

These  glades  in  the  valley  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brook -stone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl, 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a  cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


142  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail  :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  be  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn, 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 
Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 
Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER. 

INTO  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  grey  leaves  were  kind  to  Him  : 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  death  and  shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last : 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 


FROM  "  THE  SYMPHONY" 

A  VELVET  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 

Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 

And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 

As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild-rose  blown 

Had  fluttered  clown  upon  that  pool  of  tone 


SIDJVE  Y  LANIER.  1 43 

And  boat  wise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side 

And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide, 

And  clarified  and  glorified 

The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shadows  bide. 

From  the  warm  concave  of  that  fluted  note 

Somewhat,  half  song,  half  odour,  forth  did  float, 

As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat : 

"  When  Nature  in  her  far-off  glen 

Flutes  her  soft  messages  to  men 

The  flute  can  say  them  o'er  again  ; 

Yea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 

Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone 

The  flute-voice  in  the  world  of  tone. 
Sweet  friends, 
Man's  love  ascends 

To  finer  and  diviner  ends 

Than  man's  mere  thought  e'er  comprehends, 
For  I,  e'en  I, 
As  here  I  lie, 
A  petal  on  a  harmony, 
Demand  of  science  whence  and  why 

Man's  tender  pain,  man's  inward  cry, 
When  he  doth  gaze  on  earth  and  sky  1 
I  am  not  overbold  : 

I  hold 

Full  powers  from  Nature  manifold. 
I  speak  for  each  no-tonguM  tree 
That,  spring  by  spring,  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerful  arms  outspreads 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all-shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves ; 
Broad-fronded  ferns  and  keen-leaved  canes, 
And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 
And 'marsh-plants,  thirsty, — cupped  for  rains 
And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins  ; 


H4  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  every  long-armed  woman  vine 
That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine ; 
For  passionate  odours,  and  divine 
Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline  ; 
All  purities  of  shady  springs, 
All  shyness  of  film-winged  things 
That  fly  from  tree-trunks  and  bark-rings ; 
All  modesties  of  mountain-fawns 
That  leap  to  covert  from  wild  lawns, 
And  tremble  if  the  day  but  dawns ; 
All  sparklings  of  small  beady  eyes 
Of  birds,  and  sidelong  glances  wise 
Wherewith  the  jay  hints  tragedies  ; 
All  piquances  of  prickly  burs, 
And  smoothnesses  of  downs  and  furs, 
Of  eiders  and  of  minevers ; 
All  limpid  honeys  that  do  lie, 
At  stamen-bases,  nor  deny 
The  humming-bird's  fine  roguery, 
Bee-thighs,  nor  any  butterfly  ; 
All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings, 
Bark-motlings,  fibre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings,  and  leaf-flickerings ; 
Each  dial-marked  leaf  and  flower-bell 
Wherewith  in  every  lonesome  dell 
Time  to  himself  his  hours  doth  tell ; 
All  tree-sounds,  rustlings  of  pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings,  dove's  melodious  moans, 
And  night's  unearthly  under-tones; 
All  placid  lakes  and  waveless  deeps, 
All  cool  reposing  mountain-steeps, 
Vale-calms  and  tranquil  lotos-sleeps  ; — 
Yea,  all  fair  forms,  and  sounds,  and  lights, 
And  warmths,  and  mysteries,  and  mights, 
Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights, 
— These  doth  my  timid  tongue  present, 
Their  mouthpiece  and  leal  instrument 
And  servant,  all  love-eloquent. 


SIDNEY  LANIER.  145 

THE    CRYSTAL. 

AT  midnight,  death's  and  truth's  unlocking  time, 

When  far  within  the  spirit's  hearing  rolls 

The  great  soft  rumble  of  the  course  of  things — 

A  bulk  of  silence  in  a  mask  of  sound, — 

When  darkness  clears  our  vision  that  by  day 

Is  sun-blind,  and  the  soul's  a  raving  owl 

For  truth  and  flitteth  here  and  there  about 

Low-lying  woody  tracks  of  time  and  oft 

Is  minded  for  to  sit  upon  a  bough, 

Dry-dead  and  sharp,  of  some  long-stricken  tree 

And  muse  in  that  gaunt  place, — 'twas  then  my  heart, 

Deep  in  the  meditative  dark,  cried  out : 

"  Ye  companies  of  governor-spirits  grave, 

Bards,  and  old  bringers-down  of  naming  news 

From  steep-wall'd  heavens,  holy  malcontents, 

Sweet  seers,  and  stellar  visionaries,  all 

That  brood  about  the  skies  of  poesy, 

Full  bright  ye  shine,  insuperable  stars  ; 

Yet,  if  a  man  look  hard  upon  you,  none 

With  total  lustre  blazeth,  no,  not  one 

But  hath  some  heinous  freckle  of  the  flesh 

Upon  his  shining  cheek,  not  one  but  winks 

His  ray,  opaqued  with  intermittent  mist 

Of  defect ;  yea,  you  masters  all  must  ask 

Some  sweet  forgiveness,  which  we  leap  to  give, 

We  lovers  of  you,  heavenly  glad  to  meet 

Your  largesse  so  with  love,  and  interplight 

Your  geniuses  with  our  mortalities. 

Thus  unto  thee,  O  sweetest  Shakespeare  sole 

A  hundred  hurts  a  day  I  do  forgive 

('Tis  little,  but,  enchantment !  'tis  for  thee)  : 

Small  curious  quibble  ;  Juliet's  prurient  pun 

In  the  poor,  pale  face  of  Romeo's  fancied  death  ; 

Cold  rant  of  Richard  ;  Henry's  fustian  roar 

Which  frights  away  that  sleep  he  invocates ; 

Wronged  Valentine's  unnatural  haste  to  yield ; 

K       • 


146  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Too-silly  shifts  of  maids  that  mask  as  men 
In  faint  disguises  that  could  ne'er  disguise — 
Viola,  Julia,  Portia,  Rosalind ; 
Fatigues  most  drear,  and  needless  overtax 
Of  speech  obscure  that  had  as  leif  be  plain ; 
Last  I  forgive  (with  more  delight,  because 
'Tis  more  to  do)  a  laboured-lewd  discourse 
That  e'en  thy  young  invention's  youngest  heir 
Besmirched  the  world  with. 

Father  Homer,  thee, 
Thee  also  I  forgive  thy  sandy  wastes 
Of  prose  and  catalogue,  thy  drear  harangues 
That  tease  the  patience  of  the  centuries, 
Thy  sleazy  scrap  of  story, — but  a  rogue's 
Rape  of  a  light-o'-love, — too  solid  a  patch 
To  border  with  the  gods. 

Thee,  Socrates, 

Thou  dear  and  very  strong  one,  I  forgive 
Thy  year-worn  cloak,  thine  iron  stringencies 
That  were  but  dandy  upside-down,  thy  words 
Of  truth  that,  mildier  spoke,  had  manlier  wrought. 

So,  Buddha,  beautiful !     I  pardon  thee 
That  all  the  All  thou  hadst  for  needy  man 
Was  nothing,  and  thy  Best  of  being  was 
But  not  to  be. 

Worn  Dante,  I  forgive 

The  implacable  hates  that  in  thy  horrid  hells 
Or  burn  or  freeze  thy  fellows,  never  loosed 
By  death,  nor  time,  nor  love. 

And  I  forgive 

Thee,  Milton,  those  thy  comic-dreadful  wars 
Where,  armed  with  gross  and  inconclusive  steel, 
Immortals  smite  immortals  mortalwise 
And  till  all  heaven  with  folly. 

Also  thee, 
Brave  ^Eschylus,  thee  I  forgive,  for  that 


SIDNE  Y  LANIER.  1 47 

Thine  eye,  by  bare,  bright  justice  basilisked, 
Turned  not,  nor  ever  learned  to  look  where  Love  stands 
shining. 

So,  unto  thee,  Lucretius  mine 
(For  oh,  what  heart  hath  loved  thee  like  to  this 
That's  now  complaining  ?),  freely  I  forgive 
Thy  logic  poor,  thine  error  rich,  thine  earth 
Whose  graves  eat  souls  and  all. 

Yea,  all  your  hearts 

Of  beauty,  and  sweet  righteous  lovers  large  : 
Aurelius  fine,  oft  superfine ;  mild  saint 
A  Kempis,  overmild ;  Epictetus, 
Whiles  low  in  thought,  still  with  old  slavery  tinct 
Rapt  Behmen,  rapt  too  far ;  high  Swedenborg, 
O'ertoppling ;  Langley,  that  with  but  a  touch 
Of  art  hadst  sung  Piers  Plowman  to  the  top 
Of  English  songs,  whereof  'tis  dearest,  now, 
And  most  adorable ;  Csedmon,  in  the  morn 
A-calling  angels  with  the  cow-herd's  call 
That  late  brought  up  the  cattle ;  Emerson, 
Most  wise,  that  yet,  in  finding  Wisdom,  lost 
Thy  Self,  sometimes ;  tense  Keats,  with  angels'  nerves 
Where  men's  were  better  ;  Tennyson,  largest  voice 
Since  Milton,  yet  some  register  of  wit 
Wanting; — all,  all,  I  pardon,  ere  'tis  asked, 
Your  more  or  less,  your  little  mole  that  marks 
Your  brother  and  your  kinship  seals  to  man. 

But  Thee,  but  Thee,  O  sovereign  Seer  of  time, 

But  Thee,  0  poet's  Poet,  Wisdom's  Tongue, 

But  Thee,  O  man's  best  Man,  O  love's  best  Love, 

O  perfect  life  in  perfect  labour  writ, 

0  all  men's  Comrade,  Servant,  King,  or  Priest, 

What  if  or  yet,  what  mole,  what  flaw,  what  lapse, 

What  least  defect  or  shadow  of  defect, 

What  rumour,  tattled  by  an  enemy, 

Of  inference  loose,  what  lack  of  grace 

Even  in  torture's  grasp,  of  sleep's,  or  death's, — 

Oh,  what  amiss  may  I  forgive  in  Thee, 

Jesus,  good  Paragon,  thou  Crystal  Christ  ? " 


148  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


DAVID  LAW  PROUDFIT. 

[Born  in  Newbury,  New  York,  27th  October  1842.  Author  of  Love 
among  the  Gamins  (New  York,  1877),  and  Mask  and  Domino 
(Philadelphia,  1888).  The  poems  quoted  are  from  this  latter 
volume,  and  are  given  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  pub 
lishers. 

AT  ODDS  WITH  LIFE, 

'Tis  a  toilsome  path  to  climb, 
But  all  climbing  is  sublime 
(If  you  think  so).     One  flight  more, 
Yonder  is  the  studio  door. 
Artist's  eyries  should  be  high, 
Don't  you  think  so  1     Near  the  sky ; 
Up  above  the  small  affairs 
Of  our  lower  life  of  cares  ; 
Up,  far  up,  in  regions  where 
Stars  and  comets  float  in  air ; 
In  an  atmosphere  that  brings 
Glimpses  of  unusual  things 
Into  those  who  dare  to  soar 
To  the  shifting  changeful  shore 
Of  strange  fancies,  fair  and  far. 
Tired,  Elsie  ?     Here  we  are. 

No  one  here.     Sit  down,  my  dear 
Rest  a  moment.     It  is  clear 
He  will  soon  return.     You  see  1 
Palette,  brushes,  carelessly 
Flung  about  in  artist  fashion. 
Ah,  these  men  of  fire  and  passion 
Love  disorder,  and  it  seems 
To  befit  a  man  of  dreams. 
Let  me  whisper  something,  dear; 
I've  a  fancy — though  I  fear 
'Tis  irreverent  indeed — 
That  our  average  artists  need 


DA  VID  LAW  PRO  UDFIT.  1 49 

Something  more  of  that  fine  fire 
Which  ethereal  dreams  inspire, 
To  redeem  them  from  the  trace 
Of  an  easy  common-place. 

This  the  merit  of  our  friend  : 
He  begins  where  others  end. 
With  all  their  fidelity, 
Colour,  form,  and  harmony, 
He  has  something  better  worth  ; 
Something  of  a  nobler  birth, 
Born  of  earthquakes,  lightnings,  storms. 
He  has  friends  in  fancy  forms 
Such  as  throng  the  midnight  hours, 
Play  with  meteoric  showers, 
Ride  auroras  through  the  sky, 
-  Mount  the  crescent  moon  on  high, 
Then  go  fishing  down  the  night 
After  stars  of  faded  light; 
Familiar,  he,  of  elf  and  gnome ; 
All  fantastic  shapes  that  roam 
Sceptred,  winged,  a  glorious  band, 
Through  the  mystery -haunted  land — 
Wondrous  land  of  fire-fly  gleams — 
Seen  of  poets  in  their  dreams. 

BUG  the  dreamers,  men  who  see 

Shadowy  forms  of  mystery 

In  the  earth  and  sea  and  sky ; 

Men  whose  winged  fancies  fly 

To  the  uttermost,  remote 

Realms  where  shapes  ethereal  float ; 

Men  whose  fine  sense  subtly  hears 

Music  from  the  distant  spheres, — 

Often  miss  their  heritage 

In  this  heartless,  hurrying  age, 

Though,  too  late,  their  fame  may  be 

Handed  to  posterity. 

For  they  seem  at  odds  with  life, 

Armoured  feebly  for  its  strife. 


150  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  our  friend,  whose  picture  there 
Shadows  forth  such  white  despair 
Hath  his  trials,  I  surmise  ; 
For,  within  his  hungry  eyes, 
When  I  saw  him  last,  I  read 
Something  curious,  vague  and  dread. 
Then  I  said  that  I  would  buy 
This  Prometheus,  and  his  eye 
Lit  up  strangely,  with  a  fire 
Born  of  some  extreme  desire. 
Think  you  famine's  spectre  stood 
With  him  in  his  solitude  ? 

Had  we  sooner  come  indeed 
It  perhaps  had  served  his  need, 
But  you  like  it  ?     Then  to-day 
There  shall  be  no  more  delay. 
See  what  vigour,  grandeur,  gloom  ; 
What  an  atmosphere  of  doom  ! 
What  a  hopeless,  vast  despair, 
In  that  figure  lying  there 
Chained  with  iron  links  and  rods  ! 
Awful  eyes  that  judge  the  gods  ! 
Face  of  agony  untold, 
Yet  contemptuous,  scornful,  bold  ! 
Bare,  cold  rocks,  uplifted  high 
To  a  lowering,  thunderous  sky  ; 
And  a  sea  in  league  with  fate, 
Making  all  things  desolate  ! 
Yes,  with  sombre  feeling  tainted, 
But  a  picture  grandly  painted, 
Such  a  canvas  lifts  the  soul 
Out  of  Habit's  dull  control, 
Plumes  Imagination's  wing, 
And  crowns  the  artist  like  a  king. 

What  a  strange  collection  here  ! 
Curious  is  it  not,  my  dear  ? 
Rubbish,  some  good  folks  would  say 
In  their  lofty,  stupid  way, 


DA  VI D  LAW  PRO  UDFIT.  \  5 1 

Lacking  insight.     Who  can  tell 

What  suggestions  herein  dwell? 

See  this  travesty  in  wood 

Of  a  human  attitude ; 

There  a  figure  stuffed  with  hair 

Semblance  of  a  lady  fair; 

Bits  of  armour,  china,  lace, 

Plaster  hands,  a  foot,  a  face, 

A  sword,  a  Malay  creese,  a  knife, 

Fit  to  take  a  pirate's  life ; 

Gobelin  tapestry,  faded,  rare, 

Screening  in  yon  alcove  there 

Such  a  dismal  effigy 

Hanging  from  a  beam  you  see  ? 

Well,  my  gentleman  is  late, 
Elsie,  since  we  still  must  wait, 
What  thing  better  can  I  do 
Than  to  make  love,  sweet,  to  you  1 
Nay,  no  prudery,  my  dear  ! 
What  vague  presence  do  you  fear? 
Rosy  lips,  one  little  kiss  ! — 
Elsie  darling,  what  is  this? 
Trembling,  and  your  face  is  white  ! 
What  has  frozen  you  with  fright  ? 
Tell  me  precious  !  speak  to  me  ! 
Do  you  dread  yon  effigy  1 
No,  no,  no,  my  sweet  'tis  naught ! 
'Tis  not  living,  as  you  thought ! 
See  'tis  nothing  you  should  fear ! 
It  is — horror  !  what  is  here  ? 
Come  away  !  come  !  come  !  'tis  true 
This  is  not  a  place  for  you. 


152  YO UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS 
(YAWCOB  STRAUSS). 

[Born  at  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  now  a  part  of  Boston,  21st 
April  1842.  Author  of  Lcedle  Yawcob  Strauss,  and  other  Poems 
(Lee  &  Shepherd,  Boston,  1878),  and  Dialect  Ballads  (Harper 
Brothers,  New  York,  1888).  "Der  Drummer,"  is  from  the 
former  volume,  "  Mine  Vamily,"  "  Don'd  feel  too  big,"  "  Mine 
Moder-in-Law,"  "  Der  Vater-mill,"  "  Der  Oak  und  der  Vine," 
are  from  the  latter,  and  are  published  by  special  consent  of 
these  firms.] 

DER  OAK  AND  DER   VINE. 

I  DON'D  vas  preaching  voman's  righdts, 

Or  anyding  like  dot, 
Und  I  likes  to  see  all  beoples 

Shust  gondented  mit  dheir  lot ; 
Budt  I  vants  to  gondradict  dot  shap 

Dot  made  dis  leedle  shoke ; 
11 A  voman  vas  der  glinging  vine, 

Und  man,  der  shturdy  oak." 

Berhaps,  somedimes,  dot  may  be  drue ; 

Budt,  den  dimes  oudt  off'  nine, 
I  find  me  oudt  dot  man  himself 

Vas  peen  der  glinging  vine ; 
Und  ven  hees  friendts  dhey  all  vas  gone, 

Und  he  vas  shust  "  tead  proke," 
Dot's  vhen  der  voman  shteps  righdt  in, 

Und  peen  der  shturdy  oak. 

Shust  go  oup  to  der  paseball  groundts 

Und  see  dhose  "  shturdy  oaks  " 
All  planted  roundt  ubon  der  seats — 

Shust  hear  dheir  laughs  and  shokes  ! 


CHARLES  POLLEN  ADAMS.  153 

Dhen  see  dhose  vomens  at  der  tubs, 

Mit  glothes  oudt  on  der  lines ; 
Yhich  vas  der  shturdy  oaks,  mine  friendts, 

Und  vhich  der  glinging  vines  ? 

Ven  Sickness  in  der  householdt  comes, 

Und  veeks  und  veeks  he  shtays, 
Who  vas  id  fighdts  him  mitoudt  resdt, 

Dhose  veary  nighdts  und  days  ? 
Who  beace  und  gomfort  alvays  prings, 

Und  cools  dot  f efered  prow  ? 
More  like  id  vas  der  tender  vine 

Dot  oak  he  glings  to,  now. 

"Man  vants  budt  leedle  here  below," 

Der  boet  von  time  said ; 
D here's  leedle  dot  man  he  don'd  vant, 

I  dink  id  means,  inshted  ; 
Und  ven  der  years  keep  rolling  on, 

Dheir  cares  und  droubles  pringing 
He  vants  to  pe  der  shturdy  oak, 

Und,  also,  do  der  glinging. 

Maype,  vhen  oaks  dhey  gling  some  more, 

Und  don'd  so  shturdy  peen, 
Der  glinging  vines  dhey  haf  some  shance 

To  helb  run  Life's  masheen. 
In  helt  und  sickness,  shoy  und  pain, 

In  calm  or  shtormy  veddher, 
'Twas  beddher  dot  dhose  oaks  and  vines 

Should  alvays  gling  togeddher. 


154  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


MINE    VA  MIL  Y. 

DIMBLED  scheeks,  mit  eyes  off  plue, 
Mout  like  id  was  moisd  urit  dew, 
Und  leedle  teeth  shust  peekin'  droo — 
Dot's  der  baby. 

Curly  head,  und  full  of  glee, 
Drousers  all  oudt  at  der  knee — 
He  vas  peen  blaying  horse,  you  see — 
Dot's  leedle  Yawcob. 

Von  hundord-seexty  in  der  shade, 
Der  oder  day  ven  she  vas  veighed — 
She  beats  me  soon,  I  vas  avraid — 
Dot's  mine  Katrina. 

Bare-footed  hed,  und  pooty  stoudt, 
Mit  grooked  legs  dot  vill  bend  oudt, 
Fond  off  his  bier  und  sauer  kraut — 
Dot's  me  himself. 

Von  schmall  young  baby,  full  ofi  fun, 
Von  leedle,  prite-eyed  roguish  son, 
Von  frau  to  greet  vhen  vork  vas  done- 
Dot's  mine  vamily. 


HE  GETS  DHERE  SHUST  DER  SAME 

OLDT  ^Esop  wrote  a  fable,  vonce, 

Aboudt  a  boasting  bare 
Who  say  :  "  Vhen  dhere  vas  racing 

You  can  alvays  find  me  dhere !  " 


CHARLES  POLLEN  ADAMS.  1 55 

Und  how  a  tortoise  raced  mit  him, 

Und  shtopped  hees  leedle  game, 
Und  say  :  "  Eef  I  don'd  been  so  shpry, 

I  gets  dhere  shust  dhere  same  \" 


Dot  vas  der  cases  eferyvhere, 

In  bolidics  und  trade, 
By  bersbiration  off  der  brow 

Yas  how  soocksess  vas  made. 
A  man  may  somedime  "  shdrike  id  rich," 

Und  get  renown  und  fame, 
Budt  dot  bersbiration  feller,  too, 

He  gets  dhere  shust  der  same. 


Der  girl  dot  makes  goot  beeskits, 

Und  can  vash  und  iron  dings, 
Maybe  don'd  been  so  lofely 

As  dot  girl  mit  dimondt  rings  ; 
Budt  vhen  a  vife  vas  vanted 

Who  vas  id  dot's  to  blame 
Eef  dot  girl  mitoudt  der  shewels 

Should  get  dher  shust  der  same  ? 

Dot  schap  dot  leafes  hees  peesnis, 

Und  hangs  roundt  "Bucket  Shops," 
To  make  den  tollars  oudt  off  von, 

Vhen  grain  und  oil  shtock  drops, 
May  go  avay  vrom  dhere,  somedimes, 

Mooch  poorer  as  he  came. 
"  Der  mills  off  God  grind  shlowly  "- 

Budt  dhey  get  dhere  shust  der  same. 


Dhen  neffer  mindt  dhose  mushroom  schaps 

Dot  shpring  oup  in  a  day ; 
Dhose  repudations  dhey  vas  made 

By  vork,  und  not  by  blay. 


1 56  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

Shust  poot  your  shoulder  to  der  vheel, 
Eef  you  vould  vin  a  name, 

TJnd  eef  der  Vhite  House  needs  you — 
You  vill  get  dhere  shust  der  same. 


MINE  MODER-IN-LA  W. 

DHERE  vas  many  qveer  dings  in  dis  land  off  der  free, 

I  neffer  could  qvite  understand  ; 
Der  beoples  dhey  all*  seem  so  deefrent  to  me 

As  dhose  in  mine  own  faderland. 
Dhey  gets  blendy  droubles,  und  indo  mishaps 

Mitoudt  der  least  bit  off  a  cause ; 
Und  vould  you  pelief  it?  dhose  mean  Yangee  shaps 

Dhey  fights  mit  dheir  moder-in-laws  ? 

Shust  dink  off  a  vhite  man  so  vicked  as  dot ! 

Vhy  not  gif e  der  oldt  lady  a  show  ? 
Who  vas  it  gets  oup,  ven  der  nighdt  id  vas  hot, 

Mit  mine  baby,  I  shust  like  to  know  1 
Und  dhen  in  dher  vinter  vhen  Katrine  vas  sick 

Und  der  mornings  vas  shnowy  und  raw, 
Who  made  rightd  avay  oup  dot  fire  so  quick  ? 

Vhy,  dot  vas  mine  moder-in-law. 

Id  vas  von  off  dhose  voman's  righds  vellers  I  been 

Dhere  vas  noding  dot's  mean  aboudt  me; 
Vhen  der  oldt  lady  vishes  to  run  dot  masheen, 

Vhy,  I  shust  let  her  run  id,  you  see. 
Und  vhen  (lot  shly  Yawcob  vas  cutting  some  dricks 

(A  block  off  der  oldt  chip  he  vas,  yaw  !) 
Ef  he  goes  for  dot  shap  like  some  dousand  off  bricks, 

Dot's  all  righdt !     She's  mine  moder-iu-law. 


CHARLES  POLLEN  ADAMS.  \  57 

Veek  oudt  und  veek  in,  id  vas  alvays  der  same, 

Dot  vomen  vos  boss  off  der  house  ; 
But,  delin,  nefFer  mindt  !  I  vas  glad  dot  she  came, 

She  vas  kind  to  mine  young  Yawcob  Strauss. 
Und  ven  dhere  vas  vater  to  get  vrom  der  spring 

Und  firevood  to  shplit  oup  und  saw 
She  vas  velcome  to  do  it.     Dhere's  not  anyding 

Dot's  too  good  for  mine  rnoder-iu-law. 


DER   DRUMMER. 

WHO  puts  oup  at  der  pest  hotel, 
Und  dakes  his  oysders  on  der  schell  ? 
Und  mit  der  f  rauleins  cuts  a  schwell  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  vas  it  gomes  indo  mine  schtore, 
Drows  down  his  pundles  on  der  vloor, 
Und  nef er  schtops  to  shut  der  door  1 
Der  drummer. 

Who  dakes  me  py  der  handt  und  say  : 
"  Hans  Pfeiffer,  how  you  vas  to-day  ?  " 
Und  goes  for  peesness  right  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  shpreads  his  zamples  in  a  trice, 
Und  dells  me  "  look,  und  see  how  nice  ?  " 
Und  says  I  gets  "  der  bottom  price  1 " 
Der  drummer. 

Who  says  der  dings  vas  eggstra  vine — 
'From  Sharmany,  upon  der  Rhine" — 
Und  sheats  me  den  dimes  oudt  af  nine 
Der  drummer. 


158  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Who  dells  how  sheap  der  goots  vas  bought: 
"Mooch  less  as  vot  I  good  imbort, 
But  lets  dem  go  as  he  vas  "  short  ? " 
Der  drummer. 

Who  varrants  all  der  goots  to  suit 
Der  gustomers  ubon  his  route, 
Und  ven  dey  gomes  dey  vas  no  goot  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who  gomes  around  ven  I  been  ouclt, 
Drinks  oup  mine  bier,  und  eats  mine  kraut, 
Und  kiss  Katrina  in  der  mout'  ? 
Der  drummer. 

Who,  ven  he  gomes  again  dis  vay, 
Yill  hear  vot  Pfeiffer  has  to  say, 
Und  mit  a  plack  eye  goes  avay  ? 
Der  drummer. 


"DON'D  FEEL  TOO  BIG!" 

A  FROG  vas  a-singing  von  day  in  der  brook, 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big !) 

Und  he  sh veiled  mit  pride,  und  he  say,  "  Shust  look  ; 

Don'd  I  sing  dose  peautif  ul  songs  like  a  book  ? " 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 

A  fish  came  a-svimming  along  dot  vay; 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 
"  I'll  dake  you  oudt  off  der  vet,"  he  say; 
Und  der  leedle  froggie  vas  shtowed  avay. 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 


CHARLES  POLLEN  ADAMS.  159 

A  hawk  flew  down  imd  der  fish  dook  in ; 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 
Und  der  hawk  he  dink  dot  der  shmardest  vin 
Yen  he  shtuck  his  claws  in  dot  fish's  shkin. 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 

A  hunter  vas  oudt  mit  his  gun  aroundt, 

(Id  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  yon  don'd  feel  too  big  !) 
Und  he  say,  ven  der  hawk  vas  brought  to  der  groundt, 
Und  der  fish  und  der  leedle  frog  vas  foundt, 

"  It  vas  beddher,  mine  friends,  you  don'd  feel  too  big !" 


DER   VATER-MILL. 

I  READS  aboudt  dot  vater-mill  dot  runs  der  life-long  day, 
Und  how  der  vater  don'd  coom  pack  vhen  vonce  id  flows 

avay : 
Und  off  der  mill  shtream  dot  glides  on  so  beacef  ully  and 

shtill, 
Budt  don'd  vas  putting  in  more  vork  on  dot  same  vater 

mill. 
Der  boet  says,  'tvas  beddher  dot  you  holdt  dis  broverb 

fast, 
"  Der  mill  id  don'd  vould  grind  some  more  mit  vater  dot 

vas  past." 

Dot  boem  id  was  peautiful  to  read  aboudt ;  dot's  so  ! 
Budt  eef  dot  vater  vasrit  past  how  could  dot  mill  wheel 

go? 
Und  vhy  make  drouble  mit  dot  mill  vhen  id  vas  been 

inclined 

To  dake  each  obbordunity  dot's  gifen  id  to  grind  ? 
Und  vhen  der  vater  cooms  along  in  qvandidies  so  vast, 
Id  lets  some  oder  mill  dake  oup  der  vater  dot  vas  past. 


160  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Dhen  der  boet  shange  der  subject,  und  he  dells  us  vonce 

again : 
"Der  sickle  neffer  more  sLall  reap  der  yellow,  garnered 

grain." 
Veil ;  vonce  vas  blendy,  aind't  id  1     Id  vouldn't  been  so 

nice 

To  haf  dot  sickle  reaping  oup  der  same  grain  ofer,  tvice  ! 
Yhy,  vot's  der  use  off  cutting  oup  der  grass  alreaty  mown? 
Id  vas  pest,  mine  moder  dold  me,  to  let  veil  enough  alone. 

"Der  summer  vinds  refife  no  more  leaves  strewn  o'er 

earth  and  main." 
Yell ;  who  vants  to  refife  them  ?    Dhere  vas  blendy  more 

again  ! 
Der  summer  vinds  dhey  shtep  righdt  oup  in  goot  time  to 

brepare 
Dhose  blants  und  trees  for  oder  leaves  ;  dhere  soon  vas 

creen  vones  dhere. 
Shust  bear  dis  adverb  on  your  mindts,  mine  frendts,  und 

holdt  id  fast ! 
Der  new  leaves  don'd  vas  been  aroundt  undil  der  oldt  vas 

past. 

Dhen  neffer  mindt  der  leaves  dot's  dead  ;  der  grain  dot's 

in  der  bin  ; 
Dhey  both  off  dhem  haf  had  dheir  day,  und  shust  vas 

gathered  in. 
Und  neffer  mindt  der  vater  vhen  id  vonce  goes  droo  der 

mill; 
Ids  vork  vas  done  !     Dhere's  blendy  more  dot  vaits,  ids 

blace  to  fill. 
Let  each  von  dake  dis  moral,  vrom  der  king  down  to  der 

peasant  : 
Don'd  mindt  der  vater  dot  vas  past,  budt  der  vater  dot 

vas  bresent. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  161 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 

[Born  at  Bordentown,  New  Jersey,  8th  February  1844.  Author  of 
The  New  Day  (New  York,  1875);  The  Poet  and  II is  Master 
(1878) ;  Lyrics  (1885)  ;  and  Tlie  Celestial  Passion  (1887).  The 
poems  given  are  quoted  with  the  kind  permission  of  The 
Century  Co.,  New  York.] 

ODE. 
r. 

I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  morning  sea ; 

I  am  the  awakening  and  the  glad  surprise ; 

I  fill  the  skies 

With  laughter  and  with  light. 

Not  tears,  but  jollity 

At  birth  of  day  brim  the  strong  man-child's  eyes. 

Behold  the  white 

Wide  three-fold  beams  that  from  the  hidden  sun 

Rise  swift  and  far, — 

One  where  Orion  keeps 

His  armed  watch,  and  one 

That  to  the  midmost  starry  heaven  upleaps ; 

The  third  blots  out  the  firm-fixed  Northern  star. 

I  am  the  wind  that  shakes  the  glittering  wave, 
Hurries  the  snowy  spume  along  the  shore 
And  dies  at  last  in  some  far-murmuring  cave. 
My  voice  thou  hearest  in  the  breaker's-roar, — 
That  sound  which  never  failed  since  time  began, 
And  first  around  the  world  the  shining  tumult  ran. 

II. 

I  light  the  sea  and  wake  the  sleeping  land. 
My  footsteps  on  the  hills  make  music,  and  my  hand 
Plays  like  a  harper's  on  the  wind-swept  pines. 

With  the  wind  and  the  day 
I  follow  round  the  world — away  !  away ! 
Wide  over  lake  and  plain  my  sunlight  shines, 
And  every  wave  and  every  blade  of  grass 
Doth  know  me  as  I  pass ; 
L 


162  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  me  the  western  sloping  mountains  know,  and  me 
The  far-off,  golden  sea. 

O  sea,  whereon  the  passing  sun  doth  lie  ! 

0  man,  who  watchest  by  the  golden  sea  ! 
Weep  not, — O  weep  not  thou,  but  lift  thine  eye 
And  see  me  glorious  in  the  sunset  sky  ! 

in. 

1  love  not  the  night 

Save  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
Or  when  the  moon 

Fills  the  white  air  with  silence  like  a  tune. 
Yea,  even  the  night  is  mine 
When  the  Northern  Lights  outshine, 
And  all  the  wild  heavens  throb  in  ecstasy  divine ; — 
Yea,  mine  deep  midnight,  though  the  black  sky  lowers, 
When  the  sea  burns  white  and  breaks  on  the  shore  in 
starry  showers. 

IV. 

I  am  the  laughter  of  the  new-born  child 

On  whose  soft-breathing  sleep  an  angel  smiled. 

And  I  all  sweet  first  things  that  are : 

First  songs  of  birds,  not  perfect  as  at  last, — 

Broken  and  incomplete, — 

But  sweet,  oh,  sweet ! 

And  I  the  first  faint  glimmer  of  a  star 

To  the  wrecked  ship  that  tells  the  storm  is  past : 

The  first  keen  smells  and  stirring  of  the  Spring ; 

First  snow-flakes,  and  first  May-flowers  after  snow, 

The  silver  glow 

Of  the  new  moon's  ethereal  ring ; 

The  song  the  morning  stars  together  made, 

And  the  first  kiss  of  lovers  under  the  first  June  shade. 

v. 

My  $word  is  quick,  my  arm  is  strong  to  smite 
In  the  dread  joy  and  fury  of  the  fight. 
I  am  with  those  who  win,  not  those  who  fly ; 
With  those  who  live  I  am,  not  those  who  die, 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  163 

Who  die  1     Nay — nay — that  word 

Where  I  am  is  unheard ; 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  youth  that  cannot  change, 

Nor  cease,  nor  suffer  woe ; 

And  I  am  the  spirit  of  beauty  that  doth  range 

Through  natural  forms  and  motions,  and  each  show 

Of  outward  loveliness.     With  me  have  birth 

All  gentleness  and  joy  in  all  the  earth. 

Raphael  knew  me,  and  showed  the  world  my  face  ; 

Me  Homer  knew,  and  all  the  singing  race, — 

For  I  am  the  spirit  of  light,  and  life,  and  mirth. 


A   WOMAN'S  THOUGHT. 

I  AM  a  woman — therefore  I  may  not 

Call  him,  cry  to  him, 

Fly  to  him, 

Bid  him  delay  not ! 

And  when  he  comes  to  me,  I  must  sit  quiet 

Still  as  a  stone — • 

All  silent  and  cold. 

If  my  heart  riot — 

Crush  and  defy  it ! 

Should  I  grow  bold — 

Say  one  dear  thing  to  him, 

All  my  life  fling  to  him, 

Cling  to  him — 

What  to  atone 

Is  enough  for  ray  sinning  ! 

This  were  the  cost  to  me, 

This  were  my  winning — 

That  he  were  lost  to  me. 

Not  as  a  lover 
At  last  if  he  part  from  me, 
Tearing  my  heart  from  me, 
Hurt  beyond  cure, — 
Calm  and  demure 


164  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Then  must  I  hold  me — 
In  myself  fold  me — 
Lest  he  discover ; 
Showing  no  sign  to  him 
By  look  of  mine  to  him 
What  he  has  been  to  me — 
How  my  heart  turns  to  him, 
Follows  him,  yearns  to  him, 
Prays  him  to  love  me. 

Pity  me,  lean  to  me, 
Thou  God  above  me  ! 


REFORM. 

i. 
OH,  how  shall  I  help  to  right  the  world  that  is  going 

wrong ! 

And  what  can  I  do  to  hurry  the'  promised  time  of  peace  ! 
The  day  of  work  is  short,  and  the  night  of  sleep  is  long  ; 
And  whether  to  pray  or  preach,  or  whether  to  sing  a  song, 
To  plough  in  my  neighbour's  field,  or  to  seek  the  golden 

fleece, 
Or  to  sit  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  and  wish  that  ill 

would  cease  ! 

n. 
I  think,  sometimes,  it  were  best  just  to  let  the  Lord 

alone ; 
I  am  sure  some  people  forget  He  was  here  before  they 

came; 
Though  they  say  it  is  all  for  His  glory,  'tis  a  good  deal 

more  for  their  own, 
That  they  peddle  their  petty  schemes,   and  blate  and 

babble  and  groan. 
I  sometimes  think  it  were  best,  and  I  were  little  to 

blame, 
Should  I  sit  with  my  hands  in  my  lap,  in  my  face  a 

crimson  shame. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  165 

DECORATION  DA  Y. 
i. 

SHE  saw  the  bayonets  flashing  in  the  sun, 

The  flags  that  proudly  waved  ;    she  heard   the    bugles 

calling ; 

She  saw  the  tattered  banners  falling 
About  the  broken  staffs,  as  one  by  one 
The  remnant  of  the  mighty  army  passed  ; 
And  at  the  last 
Flowers  for  the  graves  of  those  whose  fight  was  done. 

ii. 

She  heard  the  tramping  of  ten  thousand  feet 
As  the  long  line  swept  round  the  crowded  square ; 
She  heard  the  incessant  hum 
That  filled  the  warm  and  blossom-scented  air, — 
The  shrilling  fife,  the  roll  and  throb  of  drum, 
The  happy  laugh,  the  cheer, — Oh  glorious  and  meet 
To  honour  thus  the  dead, 
Who  chose  the  better  part 
And  for  their  country  bled  ! 

The  dead  !     Great  God  !  she  stood  there  in  the  street, 
Living  yet  dead  in  soul  and  mind  and  heart — while  far 

away 
His  grave  was  decked  with  flowers  by  stranger's  hands 

to-day. 


"  THERE  IS  NOTHING  NE  W  UNDER 
THE  SUN." 

THERE  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun  ; 

There  is  no  new  hope  or  despair  ; 
The  agony  just  begun 

Is  as  old  as  the  earth  and  the  air. 
My  secret  soul  of  bliss 

Is  one  with  the  singing  stars, 
And  the  ancient  mountains  miss 

No  hurt  that  my  being  mars. 


166  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  know  as  I  know  my  life, 

I  know  as  I  know  my  pain, 
That  there  is  no  lonely  strife, 

That  he  is  mad  who  would  gain 
A  separate  balm  for  his  woe, 

A  single  pity  and  cover  : 
The  one  great  God  I  know 

Hears  the  same  prayer  over  and  over. 

I  know  it  because  at  the  portal 

Of  Heaven  I  bowed  and  cried, 
And  I  said,  "  Was  ever  a  mortal 

Thus  crowned  and  crucified  ! 
My  praise  Thou  hast  made  my  blame ; 

My  best  Thou  has  made  my  worst ; 
My  good  Thou  hast  turned  to  shame ; 

My  drink  is  a  flaming  thirst." 

But  scarce  my  prayer  was  said 

Ere  from  that  place  I  turned; 
I  trembled,  I  hung  my  head, 

My  cheek,  shame-smitten,  burned  : 
For  there  where  I  bowed  down 

In  my  boastful  agony, 
I  thought  of  Thy  cross  and  crown, — 

O  Christ !  I  remembered  Thee. 


THE   SO  WER. 

A  SOWER  went  forth  to  sow, 

His  eyes  were  dark  with  woe ; 

He  crushed  the  flowers  beneath  His  feet, 

Nor  smelt  the  perfume,  warm  and  sweet, 

That  prayed  for  pity  everywhere. 

He  came  to  a  field  that  was  harried 

By  iron,  and  to  heaven  laid  bare  : 

He  shook  the  seed  that  He  carried 

O'er  that  brown  and  bladeless  place. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  167 

He  shook  it,  as  God  shakes  hail 

Over  a  doomed  land, 

When  lightnings  interlace 

The  sky  and  the  earth,  and  His  wand 

Of  love  is  a  thunder-flail. 

Thus  did  that  Sower  sow  ; 
His  seed  was  human  blood, 
And  tears  of  women  and  men. 
And  I  who  near  Him  stood, 
Said  :     When  the  crop  comes,  then 
There  will  be  sobbing  and  sighing, 
Weeping  and  wailing  and  crying, 
Flame,  and  ashes,  and  woe. 

II. 

It  was  an  autumn  day 

When  next  I  went  that  way. 

And  what,  think  you,  did  I  see, — 

What  was  it  that  I  heard, — 

What  music  was  in  the  air  % 

The  song  of  a  sweet-voiced  bird  1 

Nay — but  the  songs  of  many, 

Thrilled  through  with  praise  and  prayer. 

Of  all  those  voices  not  any 

Were  sad  of  memory ; 
But  a  sea  of  sunlight  flowed, 
And  a  golden  harvest  glowed  ! 
And  I  said  :  Thou  only  art  wise — 
God  of  the  earth  and  skies  ! 
And  I  thank  Thee,  again  and  again, 
For  the  Sower  whose  name  is  Pain. 


"  O  SILVER  RIVER  FLOWING  TOWARD 
THE  SEA." 

O  SILVER  river  flowing  toward  the  sea, 

Strong,  calm,  and  solemn  as  thy  mountains  be  ! 


168  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Poets  have  sung  thy  ever-living  power, 

Thy  wintry  day,  and  summer-sunset  hour ; 

Have  told  how  rich  thou  art,  how  broad,  how  deep; 

What  commerce  thine,  how  many  myriads  reap 

The  harvest  of  thy  waters.     They  have  sung 

Thy  moony  nights,  when  every  shadow  flung 

From  cliff  or  pine  is  peopled  with  dim  ghosts 

Of  settlers,  old-world  fairies,  or  the  hosts 

Of  savage  warriors  that  once  ploughed  thy  waves — 

Now  hurrying  to  the  dance  from  hidden  graves ; 

The  waving  outline  of  thy  wooded  mountains, 

Thy  populous  towns  that  stretch  from  forest  fountains 

On  either  side,  far  to  the  salty  main, 

Like  golden  coins  alternate  on  a  chain. 

Thou  pathway  of  the  empire  of  the  North, 

Thy  praises  through  the  earth  have  travelled  forth  ! 

I  hear  thee  praised  as  one  who  hears  the  shout 

That  follows  when  a  hero  from  the  rout 

Of  battle  issues,  "  Lo,  how  brave  is  he, — 

How  noble,  proud,  and  beautiful !  "     But  she 

Who  knows  him  best — "  How  tender  !  "     So  thou  art 

The  river  of  love  to  me  ! 

— Heart  of  my  heart, 

Dear  love  and  bride — is  it  not  so  indeed?  — 
Among  your  treasures  keep  this  new-plucked  reed. 


SHERIDAN. 

QUIETLY,  like  a  child 

That  sinks  in  slumber  mild, 

No  pain  or  troubled  thought  his  well-earned  peace  to  mar, 
Sank  into  endless  rest  our  thunder-bolt  of  war. 

Though  his  the  power  to  smite, 
Quick  as  the  lightning's  light, — 
His  single  arm  an  army,  and  his  name  a  host, 
Not  his  the  love  of  blood,  the  warrior's  cruel  boast. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  169 

But  in  the  battle's  flame 

How  glorious  he  came! — 
Even  like  a  white-combed  wave  that  breaks  and  tears 

the  shore, 
While  wreck  lies  strewn  behind,  and  terror  flies  before. 

'Twas  he, — his  voice,  his  might, — 

Could  stay  the  panic  flight. 

Alone  shame  back  the  headlong,  many-leagued  retreat, 
And  turn  to  evening  triumph  morning's  foul  defeat. 

He  was  our  modern  Mars, 

Yet  firm  his  faith  that  wars 

Erelong  would  cease  to  vex  the  sad  ensanguined  earth, 
And  peace  for  ever  reign,  as  at  Christ's  holy  birth. 

Blest  land,  in  whose  dark  hour 

Arise  to  loftiest  power 

No  dazzlers  of  the  sword  to  play  the  tyrant's  part, 
But  patriot-soldiers,  true  and  pure  and  high  of  heart ! 

Of  such  our  chief  of  all ; 

And  he  who  broke  the  wall 

Of  civil  strife  in  twain,  no  more  to  build  or  mend ; 
And  he  who  hath  this  day  made  Death  his  faithful  friend. 

And  now  above  his  tomb 

From  out  the  eternal  gloom 
"  Welcome  !"  his  chieftain's  voice  sounds  o'er  the  cannon's 

knell ; 
And  of  the  three  one  only  stays  to  say  "Farewell ! " 


THE   WHITE  TSAR'S  PEOPLE. 

PART   I. 
I. 

THE  White  Tsar's  people  cry 

"  Thou  God  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 

Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 

Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening  ; 

Hold,  Lord  God,  hold, 

Hold  Thy  hand  lest  we  curse  Thee  and  die." 


170  Y.OUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

II. 

The  White  Tsar's  people  pray, 
"  Thou  God  of  the  South  and  the  North, 
We  are  crushed,  we  are  bleeding, 
'Tis  Christ,  'tis  Thy  Son  interceding  : 
Forth,  Lord,  come  forth  ! 
Bid  the  slayer  no  longer  slay." 

in. 

The  White  Tsar's  people  call 
Aloud  to  the  skies  of  lead  : 
"  We  are  slaves,  not  freemen  ; 
Ourselves,  our  children,  our  women, — 
Dead,  we  are  dead, 
Though  we  breathe,  we  are  dead  men  all 

IV. 

"  Blame  not  if  we  misprize  Thee 

Who  can,  but  will  not  draw  near. 

'Tis  Thou  who  hast  made  us, — 

Not  Thou,  dread  God,  to  upbraid  us. 

Hear,  Lord  God,  hear  ! 

Lest  we  whom  Thou  madest  despise  Thee. 

PART     II. 

I. 

THEN  answered  the  most  high  God, 
Lord  of  the  heat  and  the  cold, 
Of  storm  and  of  lightning, 
Of  darkness,  and  dawn's  red  brightening: 
"  Bold,  yea,  too  bold, 
Whom  I  wrought  from  the  air  and  the  clod! 

II. 

"  Hast  thou  forgotten  from  Me 
Are  those  ears  so  quick  to  hear 
The  passion  and  anguish 
Of  your  sisters,  your  children,  who  languish 
Near?     Ah,  not  near, — 
Far  off  by  the  uttermost  sea  ! 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  171 

in. 

"  Who  gave  ye  your  hearts  to  bleed 
And  brains  to  plan  and  to  plan  ? 
Why  call  ye  on  heaven, — 
'Tis  the  earth  that  to  you  is  given  ! 
Plead,  ye  may  plead, 
But  for  man  I  work  through  man. 

IV. 

"  Who  gave  ye  a  voice  to  utter 

Your  tale  to  the  wind  and  the  sea? 

One  word  well  spoken 

And  the  iron  gates  are  broken. 

From  Me,  yea,  from  Me 

The  word  that  ye  will  not  mutter. 

v. 

"  I  love  not  murder  but  ruth. 

Begone  from  my  sight  ye  who  take 

The  knife  of  the  coward — 

Even  ye  who  by  heaven  were  dowered  ! 

Wake  ye,  O  wake, 

And  strike  with  the  sword  of  Truth  ! 

VI. 

"  Fear  ye  lest  I  misprize  ye — 

I  who  fashioned  not  brutes,  but  men. 

After  the  lightning 

And  darkness — the  dawn's  red  brightening  ! 

Men — be  ye  men  ! 

Lest  I  who  made  ye  despise  ye  ! " 


SUNSET  FROM  THE  TRAIN. 

i. 

BUT  when  the  sunset  smiled, 

Smiled  once  and  turned  toward  dark, 

Above  the  distant,  wavering  line  of  trees  that  filed 

Along  the  horizoa's  edge  ; 


172  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Like  hooded  monks  that  hark 

Through  evening  air 

The  call  to  prayer; — 

Smiled  ouce,  and  faded  slow,  slow,  slow,  away; 

When,  like  a  changing  dream,  the  long  cloud  wedge, 

brown-grey, 

Grew  saffron  underneath,  and  ere  I  knew, 
The  interspace,  green-blue — 
The  whole,  illimitable,  western,  skyey  shore, 
The  tender,  human,  silent  sunset  smiled  once  more. 

n. 

Thee,  absent  loved  one,  did  I  think  on  now, 
Wondering  if  thy  deep  brow 
In  dreams  of  me  were  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Where,  by  our  far  sea-home,  the  sunlight  dies ; 
If  thou  didst  stand  alone, 
Watching  the  day  pavss  slowly,  slow,  as  here, 
But  closer  and  more  dear, 
Beyond   the   meadow   and    the    long,   familiar    line    of 

blackening  pine ; 
When  lo !  that  second  smile, — dear  heart,  it  was  thine 

own. 


THE  MASTER-POETS. 

HE,  the  great  World-Musician  at  whose  stroke 
The  stars  of  morning  into  music  broke ; 
He  from  whose  being  Infinite  are  caught 
All  harmonies  of  light,  and  sound,  and  thought,  — 
Once  in  each  age,  to  keep  the  world  in  tune 
He  strikes  a  note  sublime.     Nor  late,  nor  soon, 
A  God-like  soul, — music  and  passion's  birth, — 
Vibrates  across  the  discord  of  the  earth 
And  sets  the  world  aright. 

O,  these  are  they 

Who  on  men's  hearts  the  mightiest  power  can  play,- 
The  master-poets  of  humanity 
Sent  down  from  heaven  to  lit't  men  to  the  sky. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  173 

SONGS. 

THE  SONG  OF  A  HEATHEN 

(SOJOURNING  IN  GALILEE,  A.D.  32). 

i. 

IF  Jesus  Christ  is  a  man, — 

And  only  a  man, — I  say 
That  of  all  mankind  I  cleave  to  him, 

And  to  him  will  I  cleave  alway. 

n. 

If  Jesus  Christ  is  a  God, — 

And  the  only  God, — I  swear 
I  will  follow  Him  through  Heaven  and  hell, 

The  earth,  the  sea,  and  the  air  ! 


I  LOVE  HER  GENTLE  FOREHEAD. 

I  LOVE  her  gentle  forehead, 

And  I  love  her  tender  hair; 
I  love  her  cool,  white  arms, 

And  her  neck  when  it  is  bare. 

I  love  the  smell  of  her  garments ; 

I  love  the  touch  of  her  hands  ; 
I  love  the  sky  above  her, 

And  the  very  ground  where  she  stands. 

I  love  her  doubting  and  anguish ; 

I  love  the  love  she  withholds ; 
I  love  my  love  that  loveth  her 

And  anew  her  being  moulds. 


174  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"BEYOND  THE  BRANCHES  OF  THE  PINE." 

BEYOND  the  branches  of  the  pine 
The  golden  sun  no  more  doth  shine, 

But  still  the  solemn  after-glow 
Moods  the  deep  heavens  with  light  divine. 

The  night- wind  stirs  the  corn-field  near, 
The  grey  moon  turns  to  silver  clear, 

And  one  by  one  the  glimmering  stars 
In  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  appear. 

Now  do  the  mighty  hosts  of  light 
Across  the  darkness  take  their  flight, — 

They  rise  above  the  eastern  hill 
And  silent  journey  through  the  night. 

And  there  beneath  the  starry  zone, 
In  the  deep,  narrow  grave,  alone, 

Rests  all  that  mortal  was  of  her, 
The  purest  spirit  I  have  known. 


"THE  WOODS  THAT  BRING  THE 
SUNSET  NEAR:' 

THE  wind  from  out  the  west  is  blowing, 
The  homeward-wandering  cows  are  lowing, 
Dark  grows  the  pine-woods,  dark  and  drear,- 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 

When  o'er  wide  seas  the  sun  declines, 
Far  off  its  fading  glory  shines, 
Far  off,  sublime,  and  full  of  fear — 
The  pine-woods  bring  the  sunset  near. 

This  house  that  looks  to  east,  to  west, 
This,  dear  one,  is  our  home,  our  rest ; 
Yonder  the  stormy  sea,  and  here 
The  woods  that  bring  the  sunset  near. 


RICHARD   WATSON  GILDER.  175 

OH  LOVE  IS  NOT  A  SUMMER  MOOD. 

i. 
OH  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood, 

Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 

Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 

Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 

Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 

II. 
Love  is  the  flower  of  maidenhood ; 

Love  is  the  fruit  of  mortal  pain  ; 
And  she  hath  winter  in  her  blood. 

True  love  is  steadfast  as  the  skies, 

And  once  alight  she  never  flies  ; 

And  Love  is  strong,  and  Love  is  wise. 


SONG. 

YEARS  have  flown  since  I  knew  thee  first, 
And  I  know  thee  as  water  is  known  of  thirst : 
Yet  I  knew  thee  of  old  at  the  first  sweet  sight,  * 
And  thou  art  strange  to  me,  Love,  to-night. 


ONL  Y  ONCE. 

ONCE  only,  Love,  may  love's  sweet  song  be  sung ; 
But  once,  Love,  at  our  feet  love's  flower  is  flung  ; 
Once,  Love,  once  only,  Love,  can  we  be  young : 
Say  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  hate  ! 

Once  only,  Love,  will  burn  the  blood-red  fire ; 
But  once  awakeneth  the  wild  desire ; 
Love  pleadeth  long,  but  what  if  love  should  tire  ! 
Now  shall  we  love,  dear  Love,  or  shall  we  wait ! 

The  day  is  short,  the  evening  cometh  fast ; 
The  time  of  choosing,  Love,  will  soon  be  past ; 
The  outer  darkness  falleth,  Love,  at  last : 
Love,  let  us  love  ere  it  be  late, — too  late ! 


176  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


SONNETS. 

"MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH 
LIKE  ARMED  MEN." 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 
Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake ; 

Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 

It  steadfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  steadfast  rain ; 
And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 
And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 

Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 

But  lo  !  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  had  sung ; 
Instead  of  answering  cannon  comes  a  small 
White  flag  •  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung, 

And  flowers  along  the  invaders'  pathway  fall. 
The  city's  conquerors  feast  their  foes  among, 
And  their  brave  flags  are  trophies  on  her  wall. 


THE  DARK  ROOM. 

i. 

A  MAIDEN  sought  her  love  in  a  dark  room, — 
So  early  had  she  yearned  from  yearning  sleep, 
So  hard  it  was  from  her  true  love  to  keep, — 
And  blind  she  went  through  that  all-silent  gloom, 
Like  one  who  wanders  weeping  in  a  tomb. 
Heavy  her  heart,  but  her  light  fingers  leap 
With  restless  grasp  and  question  in  that  deep 
Unanswering  void.     Now  when  a  hand  did  loom 
At  last,  how  swift  her  warm  impassioned  face 
Pressed  'gainst  the  black  and  solemn-yielding  air, 
As  near  more  near  she  groped  to  that  bright  place, 
And  seized  the  hand,  and  drowned  it  with  her  hair, 
And  bent  her  body  to  his  fierce  embrace, 
And  knew  what  joy  was  in  the  darkness  there. 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  177 

II. 

Great  God  !  the  arms  wherein  that  maiden  fell 
Were  not  her  lover's;  I  am  her  lover — I 
Who  sat  here  in  the  shadows  silently 

Silent  with  gladness,  for  I  thought,  0  hell ! 

I  thought  to  me  she  moved,  and  all  was  well. 
She  saw  me  not,  yet  dimly  could  descry 
That  beautiful  hand  of  his,  and  with  a  sigh 

Sank  on  his  fair  and  treacherous  breast.    The  spell 

Of  the  Evil  One  was  on  me.     All  in  vain 

I  strove  to  speak — my  parched  lips  were  dumb. 
See  !  see  !  the  wan  and  whitening  window  pane  ! 

See,  in  the  night,  the  awful  morning  bloom  ! 

Too  late  she  will  know  all !     Heaven  !  send  thy  rain 
Of  death,  nor  let  the  sun  of  waking  come  ! 


ON  THE  LIFE- MASK  OF  ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN. 

THIS  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mould 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.     Yes,  this  is  he: 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity  ; 
That  human,  humorous  mouth  ;  those  cheeks  that  hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold  ; 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on  ;  the  lone  agony 
Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 
As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day, — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Of  armed  strength  :  his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 
M 


1 78  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 


LO  VE'S  JEALOUSY. 

OF  other  men  I  know  no  jealousy, 

Nor  of  the  maid  who  holds  thee  close,  oh  close! 

But  of  the  June-red,  summer-scented  rose, 
And  of  the  orange-streaked  sunset  sky 
That  wins  the  soul  of  thee  through  thy  deep  eye  ; 

And  of  the  breeze  hy  thee  beloved,  that  goes 

O'er  thy  dear  hair  and  brow;  the  song  that  flows 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  where  it  may  die. 
I  would  I  were  one  moment  that  sweet  show 

Of  flower ;  or  breeze  beloved  that  toucheth  all ; 

Or  sky  that  through  the  summer  eve  doth  burn. 
I  would  I  were  the  song  thou  lovest  so. 

At  sound  of  me  to  have  thine  eyelid  fall : 

But  I  would  then  to  something  human  turn. 


THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION. 

O  WHITE  and  midnight  sky,  O  starry  bath, 

Wash  me  in  thy  pure,  heavenly,  crystal  flood  ; 
Cleanse  me,  ye  stars,  from  earthly  soil  and  scath— 

Let  not  one  taint  remain  in  spirit  or  blood  ! 
Receive  my  soul,  ye  burning,  awful  deeps ; 

Touch  and  baptise  me  with  the  mighty  power 
That  in  ye  thrills,  while  the  dark  planet  sleeps ; 

Make  me  all  yours  for  one  blest,  secret  hour  ! 
O  glittering  host,  O  high  angelic  choir, 

Silence  each  tone  that  with  thy  music  jars ; 
Fill  me  even  as  an  urn  with  thy  white  fire 

Till  all  I  am  is  kindred  to  the  stars ! 

Make  me  thy  child,  thou  infinite,  holy  night, — 

So  shall  my  days  be  full  of  heavenly  light ! 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER.  179 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

THE  evening  star  trembles  and  hides  from  him 

Who  fain  would  hold  it  with  imperious  stare ; 

Yet,  to  the  averted  eye,  lo  !  unaware 
It  shines  serene,  no  longer  shy  and  dim. 
Oh,  slow  and  sweet,  its  chalice  to  the  brim 

Fills  the  leaf-shadowed  grape  with  rich  and  rare 

Cool  sunshine,  caught  from  the  white  circling  air  ! 
Home  from  his  journey  to  the  round  world's  rim — 
Through  lonely  lands,  through  cloudy  seas  and  vext — 

At  last  the  holy  Grail  met  Launfal's  sight, 
So  when  my  friend  lost  him  who  was  her  next 

Of  soul, — life  of  her  life, — all  day  the  fight. 
Raged  with  the  dumb  and  pitiless  God.     Perplexed 

She  slept.     Heaven  sent  its  comfort  in  the  night. 


.       THE   SONNET. 

WHAT  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  pearly  shell 
That  murmurs  of  the  far-off  murmuring  sea ; 
A  precious  jewel  carved  most  curiously ; 

It  is  a  little  picture  painted  well. 

What  is  a  sonnet  ?     'Tis  the  tear  that  fell 
From  a  great  poet's  hidden  ecstasy ; 
A  two-edged  sword,  a  star,  a  song — ah  me ! 

Sometimes  a  heavy-tolling  funeral  bell. 

This  was  the  flame  that  shook  with  Dante's  breath  ; 
The  solemn  organ  whereon  Milton  played, 
And  the  clear  glass  where  Shakespeare's  shadow  falls 

A  sea  this  is — beware  who  ventureth  ! 
For  like  a  fjord  the  narrow  floor  is  laid 
Mid-ocean  deep  to  the  sheer  mountain  walls. 


i8o  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


KEATS. 

TOUCH  not  with  dark  regret  his  perfect  fame, 
Sighing  "  Had  he  but  lived  he  had  done  so ; " 
Or,  "  Were  his  heart  not  eaten  out  with  woe 

John  Keats  had  won  a  prouder,  mightier  name  !  " 

Take  him  for  what  he  was  and  did — nor  blame 

Blind  fate  for  all  he  suffered.     Thou  shouldst  know 
Souls  such  as  his  escape  no  mortal  blow — 

No  agony  of  joy,  or  sorrow,  or  shame  ! 

"  Whose  name  was  writ  in  water  !  "  what  large  laughter 
Among  the  immortals  when  that  word  was  brought ! 

Then  when  his  fiery  spirit  rose  flaming  after 

High  toward  the  topmost  heaven  of  heavens  up-caught ! 
"  All  hail !  our  younger  brother  !  "  Shakespeare  said, 
And  Dante  nodded  his  imperial  head. 


FATHER  AND  CHILD. 

BENEATH  the  deep  and  solemn  midnight  sky, 
At  this  last  verge  and  boundary  of  time 
I  stand,  and  listen  to  the  starry  chime 

That  sounds  to  the  inward  ear,  and  will  not  die. 

Now  do  the  thoughts  that  daily  hidden  lie 
Arise,  and  live  in  a  celestial  clime, — 
Unutterable  thoughts,  most  high,  sublime, 

Crossed  by  one  dread  that  frights  mortality. 

Thus,  as  I  muse,  I  hear  my  little  child 

Sob  in  its  sleep  within  the  cottage  near, — 

My  own  dear  child  ! — Gone  is  that  mortal  doubt ! 

The  Power  that  drew  our  lives  forth  from  the  wild 
Our  Father  is  ;  we  shall  to  Him  be  dear, 
Nor  from  His  universe  be  blotted  out ! 


JOHN  BO  YLE  O'REILL  Y.  1 81 


"CALL  ME  NOT  DEAD." 

CALL  me  not  dead  when  I,  indeed,  have  gone 

Into  the  company  of  the  everliving 

High  and  most  glorious  poets  !     Let  thanksgiving 
Rather  be  made.     Say — "  He  at  last  hath  won 
Rest  and  release,  converse  supreme  and  wise, 

Music  and  song  and  light  of  immortal  faces  : 

To-day,  perhaps,  wandering  in  starry  places, 
He  hath  met  Keats,  and  known  him  by  his  eyes. 
To-morrow  (who  can  say)  Shakespeare  may  pass, — 

And  our  lost  friend  just  catch  one  syllable 

Of  that  three-centuried  wit  that  kept  so  well, — 
Or  Milton, — or  Dante,  looking  on  the  grass 

Thinking  of  Beatrice,  and  listening  still 

To  chanted  hymns  that  sound  from  the  heavenly  hill." 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 

[Born  at  Dowth  Castle,  Co.  Meath,  Ireland,  28th  June  1844. 
Landed  in  Philadelphia  23d  November  1869.  Founded  the 
Papyrus  Club.  Author  of  Songs  of  the  Southern  Seas  (Boston, 
1873)  ;  Songs,  Legends,  and  Ballads  (1878)  ;  Moondyne  (1879)  ; 
Statues  in  the  Block  (1881) ;  and  In  Bohemia  (1886).  The  poems 
given  are  quoted  with  the  kind  permission  of  The  Pilot  Pub 
lishing  Co.,  Boston.] 

JACQ  UEMINO TS. 

I  MAY  not  speak  in  words,  dear,  but  let  my  words  be 

flowers, 

To  tell  their  crimson  secret  in  leaves  of  fragrant  fire ; 
They  plead  for  smiles  and  kisses  as  summer  fields  for 

showers, 
And  every  purple  veinlet  thrills  with  exquisite  desire. 

O,  let  me  see  the  glance,  dear,  the  gleam  of  soft  confession 
You  give  my  amorous  roses  for  the  tender  hope  they 
prove ; 


182  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  press  their  heart-leaves  back,  love,  to  drink  their 

deeper  passion, 

For  their  sweetest,  wildest  perfume  is  the  whisper  of 
my  love ! 

My  roses,  tell  her,  pleading,  all  the  fondness  and  the 

sighing, 
All  the  longing  of  a  heart  that  reaches  thirsting  for 

its  bliss ; 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  roses,  that  my  lips  and  eyes  are  dying 
For  the  melting  of  her  love-look  and  the  rapture  of 
her  kiss. 


THE  CELEBES. 

'  The  sons  of  God  came  upon  the  earth  and  took  wives  of  the 
daughters  of  men." — Legends  of  the  Talmud. 

DEAR  islands  of  the  Orient, 

Where  Nature's  first  of  love  was  spent ; 

Sweet  hill-tops  of  the  summered  land 

Where  gods  and  men  went  hand  in  hand 

In  golden  days  of  sinless  earth  ! 

Woe  rack  the  womb  of  time,  that  bore 

The  primal  evil  to  its  birth  ! 

It  came  ;  the  gods  were  seen  no  more  : 

The  fields  made  sacred  by  their  feet, 

The  flowers  they  loved,  grown  all  too  sweet, 

The  streams  their  bright  forms  mirrored, 

The  fragrant  banks  that  made  their  bed, 

The  human  hearts  round  which  they  wove 

Their  threads  of  superhuman  love — 

These  were  too  dear  and  desolate 

To  sink  to  fallen  man's  estate ; 

The  gods  v/ho  loved  them  loosed  the  seas, 

Struck  free  the  barriers  of  the  deep, 

That  rolled  in  one  careering  sweep 

And  filled  the  land,  as  'twere  a  grave, 

And  left  no  beauteous  remnant,  save 

Those  hill-tops  called  the  Celebes. 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY.  183 

A  SAVAGE. 

DIXON,  a  Choctaw,  twenty  years  of  age, 
Had  killed  a  miner  in  a  Leadville  brawl ; 

Tried  and  condemned,  the  rough-beards  curb  their  rage, 
And  watch  him  stride  in  freedom  from  the  hall. 

"Return  on  Friday,  to  be  shot  to  death/" 
So  ran  the  sentence — it  was  Monday  night. 

The  dead  man's  comrades  drew  a  well-pleased  breath  ; 
Then  all  night  long  the  gambling  dens  were  bright. 

The  days  sped  slowly ;  but  the  Friday  came, 

And  flocked  the  miners  to  the  shooting-ground  ; 

They  chose  six  riflemen  of  deadly  aim, 

And  with  low  voices  sat  and  lounged  around. 

"  He  will  not  come."     "  He's  not  a  fool."     "  The  men 
Who  set  the  savage  free  must  face  the  blame." 

A  Choctaw  brave  smiled  bitterly,  and  then 

Smiled  proudly,  with  raised  head,  as  Dixon  came. 

Silent  and  stern — a  woman  at  his  heels ; 

He  motions  to  the  brave,  who  stays  her  tread. 
Next  minute — flame  the  guns  :  the  woman  reels 

And  drops  without  a  moan — Dixon  is  dead. 


LOVE'S  SECRET. 

LOVE  found  them  sitting  in  a  woodland  place, 
His  amorous  hand  amid  her  golden  tresses ; 

And  Love  looked  smiling  on  her  glowing  face 
And  moistened  eyes  upturned  to  his  caresses. 

"  O  sweet,"  she  murmured,  "life  is  utter  bliss  !  " 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  said,  "  our  golden  cup  runs  over  !  " 

"  Drink,  love,"  she  cried,  "and  thank  the  gods  for  this !  " 
He  drained  the  precious  lips  of  cup  and  lover. 


1 84  YO  UNGER  A  M ERIC  AN  POE  TS. 

Love  blessed  the  kiss;  but,  ere  he  wandered  thence, 
The  mated  bosoms  heard  this  benediction: 

"  Love  lies  within  the  brimming  bowl  of  sense: 

Who  keeps  this  full  has  joy — who  drains,  affliction." 

They  heard  the  rustle  as  he  smiling  fled  : 

She  reached  her  hand  to  pull  the  roses  blowing. 

He  stretched  to  take  the  purple  grapes  o'erhead ; 

Love  whispered  back,  "  Nay,  keep  their  beauties  grow 
ing" 

They  paused,  and  understood:  one  flower  alone 
They  took  and  kept,  and  Love  flew  smiling  over. 

Their  roses  bloomed,  their  cup  went  brimming  on — 
She  looked  for  Love  within,  and  found  her  lover. 


DISTANCE. 

THE  world  is  large,  when  its  weary  leagues  two  loving 

hearts  divide; 
But  the  world  is  small,  when  your  enemy  is  loose  on 

the  other  side. 


UNCLE   NED'S    TALE. 

AN  OLD  DBAGOON'S  STORY. 

I  OFTEN,  musing,  wander  back  to  days  long  since  gone  by, 
And  far-off  scenes  and  long-lost  forms  arise  to  fancy's  eye. 
A  group  familiar  now  I  see,  who  all  but  one  are  fled, — 
My  mother,  sister  Jane,  myself,  and  dear  old  Uncle  Ned. 
I'll  tell  you  how  I  see  them  now.     First,  mother  in  her 

chair 

Sits  knitting  by  the  parlour  fire,  with  anxious  matron  air  ; 
My  sister  Jane,  just  nine  years  old,  is  seated  at  her  feet, 
With  look  demure,  as  if  she,  too,  were  thinking  how  to 

meet 


JOHN  BO  YLE  O 'RE 'ILL  Y.  185 

The  butcher's  or  the  baker's  bill, — though  not  a  thought 

has  she 

Of  aught  beside  her  girlish  toys;  and  next  to  her  I  see 
Myself,  a  sturdy  lad  of  twelve, — neglectful  of  the  book 
That  open  lies  upon  my  knee, — my  fixed  admiring  look 
At  Uncle  Ned,  upon  the  left,  whose  upright,  martial  mien, 
Whose  empty  sleeve  and  grey  moustache,  proclaim  what 

he  has  been. 
My  mother  I  had  always  loved  ;    my  father  then  was 

dead  ; 
But  'twas   more  than  love — 'twas  worship — I   felt  for 

Uncle  Ned. 

Such  tales  he  had  of  battle-fields, — the  victory  and  the  rout, 
The  ringing  cheer,  the  dying  shriek,  the  loud  exulting 

shout ! 
And   how,  forgetting   age  and  wounds,   his  eye  would 

kindle'  bright, 
When  telling  of  some  desperate  ride  or  close  and  deadly 

fight ! 

But  oft  I  noticed  in  the  midst  of  some  wild  martial  tale, 
To  which  I  lent  attentive  ear,  my  mother's  cheek  grow 

pale: 
She  sighed  to  see  my  kindled  look,  and  feared  I  might 

be  led 

To  follow  in  the  wayward  steps  of  poor  old  Uncle  Ned. 
But  with  all  the  wondrous  tales  he  told  'twas  strange 

I  never  heard 

Of  his  last  fight,  for  of  that  day  he  never  spoke  a  word. 
And  yet  'twas  there  he  lost  his  arm,  and  once  he  e'en 

confessed 
'Twas  there  he  won  the  glittering  cross  he  wore  upon  his 

breast. 

It  hung  the  centre  of  a  group  of  Glory's  emblems  fair, 
And  royal  hands,  he  told  me  once,  had  placed  the  bauble 

there. 
Each  day  that  passed  I  hungered  more  to  hear  about  that 

fight, 
And  oftentimes  I  prayed  in  vain.     At  length,  one  winter's 

night,— 


186  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  very  night  I  speak  of  now, — with  more  than  usual  care 
I  filled  his  pipe,  then  took  my  stand  beside  my  uncle's 

chair: 

I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  Cross, — he  saw  my  youthful  plan ; 
And,    smiling,    laid  the    pipe   aside   and    thus  the    tale 

began  : — 

"  Well,  boy,  it  was  in  summer  time,  and  just  at  morn 
ing's  light 

We  heard  the  '  Boot  and  Saddle  ! '  sound  :  the  foe  was 
then  in  sight, 

Just  winding  round  a  distant  hill  and  opening  on  the 
plain. 

Each  trooper  looked  with  careful  eye  to  girth  and  curb 
and  rein. 

We  snatched  a  hasty  breakfast, — we  were  old  campaigners 
then  : 

That  morn,  of  all  our  splendid  corps,  we'd  scarce  one 
hundred  men  ; 

But  they  were  soldiers,  tried  and  true,  who'd  rather  die 
than  yield : 

The  rest  were  scattered  far  and  wide  o'er  many  a  hard- 
fought  field. 

Our  trumpet  now  rang  sharply  out,  and  at  a  swinging  pace 

We  left  the  bivouac  behind  ;  and  soon  the  eye  could  trace 

The  columns  moving  o'er  the  plain.  Oh  !  'twas  a  stir 
ring  sight 

To  see  two  mighty  armies  there  preparing  for  the  fight : 

To  watch  the  heavy  masses,  as,  with  practised,  steady 
wheel, 

They  opened  out  in  slender  lines  of  brightly  flashing  steel, 

Our  place  was  on  the  farther  flank,  behind  some  vising 
ground, 

That  hid  the  stirring  scene  from  view  •  but  soon  a  boom 
ing  sound 

Proclaimed  the  opening  of  the  fight.  Then  war's  loud 
thunder  rolled, 

And  hurtling  shells  and  whistling  balls  their  deadly 
message  told. 


JOHN  BO  YLE  &  RE  ILL  Y.  1 87 

We  hoped  to  have  a  gallant  day ;  our  hearts  were  all 

aglow  5 
We  longed  for  one  wild,  sweeping  charge,  to  chase  the 

flying  foe. 
Our  troopers  marked  the   hours  glide  by,   but  still  no 

orders  came : 
They  clutched  their  swords,  and  muttered  words  'twere 

better  not  to  name. 
For  hours  the  loud  artillery  roared, — the  sun  was  at  its 

height, — 
Still  there  we  lay  behind  that  hill,  shut  out  from  all  the 

fight! 
We   heard   the  maddened   charging    yells,    the    ringing 

British  cheers, 

And  all  the  din  of  glorious  war  kept  sounding  in  our  ears. 
Our  hearts  with  fierce  impatience  throbbed,  we  cursed 

the  very  hill 

That  hid  the  sight :  the  evening  fell,  and  we  were  idle  still. 
The  horses,  too,  were  almost  wild,  and  told  with  angry 

snort 

And  blazing  eye  their  fierce  desire  to  join  the  savage  sport. 
When  lower  still  the  sun  had  sunk,  and  with  it  all  our 

hope, 
A  horseman,  soiled  with  smoke  and  sweat,  came  dashing 

down  the  slope. 
He  bore  the  wished-for  orders.     '  At  last ! '  our  Colonel 

cried ; 
And  as  he  read  the  brief  despatch  his  glance  was  filled 

with  pride. 

Then  he  who  bore  the  orders,  in  a  low,  emphatic  tone, 
The  stern,  expressive  sentence  spoke, — lHe  said  it  must 

be  done  ! ' 
'  It  shall  be  done  ! '  our  Colonel  cried.      '  Men,  look  to 

strap  and  girth, 
We've  work  to  do  this  day  will  prove  what  every  man 

is  worth; 
Ay,  work,  my  lads,   will  make  amends  for  all  our  long 

delay, — 
The  General  says  on  us  depends  the  fortune  of  the  day  ! ' 


1 88  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"  No  order  needed  we  to  mount, — each  man  was  in  his 

place, 
And  stern  and  dangerous  was  the  look  on  every  veteran 

face. 

We  trotted  sharply  up  the  hill,  and  halted  on  the  brow, 
And  then  that  glorious  field  appeared.     Oh  !  lad,  I  see 

it  now  ! 

But  little  time  had  we  to  spare  for  idle  gazing  then  : 
Beneath  us,  in  the  valley,  stood  a  dark-clad  mass  of  men  : 
It  cut  the  British  line  in  two.     Our  Colonel   shouted, 

'  There  ! 
Behold  your  work  !     Our  orders  are  to  charge  and  break 

that  square  ! ' 
Each  trooper  drew  a  heavy  breath,  then  gathered  up  his 

reins, 
And  pressed  the  helmet  o'er  his  brow  ;  the  horses  tossed 

their  manes 
In  protest  fierce  against  the  curb,  and  spurned  the  springy 

heath, 
Impatient  for  the  trumpet's  sound  to  bid  them  rush  to 

death. 

"  Well,  boy,  that  moment  seemed  an  hour  :  at  last  we 

heard  the  words, — 
'  Dragoons  !  I  know  you'll  follow  me.     Bide  steady  men ! 

Draw  swords  ! ' 
The  trumpet  sounded  :  off  we  dashed,  at  first  with  steady 

pace, 

But  growing  swifter  as  wewent.    Oh !  'twas  a  gallant  race ! 
Three-fourths  the  ground  was  left  behind  :  the  loud  and 

thrilling  '  Charge  ! ' 

Rang  out ;  but,  fairly  frantic  now,  we  needed  not  to  urge 
With  voice  or  rein  our  gallant  steeds,  or  touch  their 

foaming  flanks. 
They  seemed  to  fly.     Now  straight  in  front  appeared  the 

kneeling  ranks. 
Above  them  waved  a  standard  broad  :  we  saw  their  rifles 

raised, — 
A  moment  more,   with  awful  crash,    the   deadly  volley 

blazed. 


JOHN  BO  YLE  O' RE  ILL  Y.  1 89 

The  bullets  whistled  through   our  ranks,  and  many  a 

trooper  fell ; 
But  we  were  left.     What  cared  we  then?  but  onward 

rushing  still ! 

Again  the  crash  roared  fiercely  out;  but  on !  still  madly  on ! 
We  heard  the  shrieks  of  dying  men,  but  recked  not  who 

was  gone. 
We  gored  the  horses'  foaming  flanks,  and  on  through 

smoke  and  glare 
We  wildly  dashed,   with  clenched   teeth.     We   had  no 

thought,  no  care ! 
Then  came  a  sudden,  sweeping  rush.     Again  with  savage 

heel 
I  struck  my  horse :  with  awful  bound  he  rose  right  o'er 

their  steel ! 

"  Well,  boy,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  that  dreadful  leap 
was  made, 

But  there  I  rode,  inside  the  square,  and  grasped  a  reek 
ing  blade. 

I  cared  not  that  I  was  alone,  my  eyes  seemed  filled  with 
blood : 

I  never  thought  a  man  could  feel  in  such  a  murderous 
mood. 

I  parried  not,  nor  guarded  thrusts ;  I  felt  not  pain  or 
wound, 

But  madly  spurred  the  frantic  horse,  and  swept  my 
sword  around. 

I  tried  to  reach  the  standard  sheet ;  but  there  at  last 
was  foiled. 

The  gallant  horse  was  jaded  now,  and  from  the  steel 
recoiled. 

They  saw  his  fright,  and  pressed  him  then :  his  terror 
made  him  rear, 

And  falling  back  he  crushed  their  ranks,  and  broke  their 
guarded  square ! 

My  comrades  saw  the  gap  he  made,  and  soon  came  dash 
ing  in ; 

They  raised  me  up, — I  felt  no  hurt,  but  mingled  in  the  din. 


igo  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I'd  seen  some  fearful  work  before,  but  never  was  engaged 
In  such  a  wild  and  savage  fight  as  now  around  me  raged. 
The  foe  had  ceased  their  firing,  and  now  plied  the  deadly 

steel : 
Though  all  our  men  were  wounded  then,  no  pain  they 

seemed  to  feeL 
No  groans  escaped  from  those  who  fell,  but  horrid  oaths 

instead, 

And  scowling  looks  of  hate  were  on  the  features  of  the  dead. 
The  fight  was  round  the  standard  :  though  outnumbered 

ten  to  one, 
We  held  our   ground, — ay,   more  than  that, — we    still 

kept  pushing  on. 
Our  men  now  made  a  desperate  rush  to  take  the  flag  by 

storm. 
I  seized  the  pole,  a  blow  came  down  and  crushed  my 

outstretched  arm. 

I  felt  a  sudden  thrill  of  pain,  but  that  soon  passed  away  ; 
And,  with  a  devilish  thirst  for  blood,  again  I  joined  the 

fray. 
At  last  we  rallied  all  our  strength,  and  charged  o'er 

heaps  of  slain : 
Some  fought  to  death ;  some  wavered, — then  fled  across 

the  plain. 

"Well,  boy,  the  rest  is  all  confused  :  there  was  a  fearful 
rout ; 

I  saw  our  troopers  chase  the  foe,  and  heard  their  mad 
dened  shout. 

Then  came  a  blank  :  my  senses  reeled,  I  know  not  how 
I  fell ; 

I  seemed  to  grapple  with  a  foe,  but  that  I  cannot  tell. 

My  mind  was  gone  :  when  it  came  back  I  saw  the  moon 
on  high ; 

Around  me  all  was  still  as  death.     I  gazed  up  at  the  sky, 

And  watched  the  glimmering  stars  above, — so  quiet  did 
they  seem, — 

And  all  that  dreadful  field  appeared  like  some  wild,  fear 
ful  dream. 


JOHN  BO  YLE  a  RE  ILL  Y.  191 

But  memory  soon  came  back  again,  and  cleared  my  wan 
dering  brain, 
And   then  from   every  joint  and  limb   shot  fiery  darts 

of  pain. 
My  throat  was  parched,   the  burning  thirst  increased 

with  every  breath  ; 
I  made  no  effort  to  arise,   but  wished   and  prayed  for 

death. 
My  bridle  arm  was  broken,  and  lay  throbbing  on  the 

sward, 
But  something  still  my  right  hand  grasped  :  I  thought 

it  was  my  sword. 
I  raised  my  hand  to  cast  it  off, — no  reeking  blade  was 

there ; 
Then  life  and  strength  returned, — I  held  the  Standard 

of  the  Square  ! 
With   bounding   heart  I  gained  my  feet.     Oh  !   then  I 

wished  to  live. 
'Twas  strange  the  strength  and  love  of  life  that  standard 

seemed  to  give ! 
I  gazed  around :  far  down  the  vale  I  saw  a  camp-fire's 

glow. 
With  wandering   step   I  ran  that  way, — I   recked  not 

friend  or  foe. 
Though  stumbling  now  o'er  heaps  of  dead,  now  o'er  a 

stiffened  horse, 
I  heeded    not,   but  watched    the    light,   and    held  my 

onward  course. 
But  soon  that  flash  of  strength  had  failed,  and  checked 

my  feverish  speed ; 
Again  my  throat  was  all  ablaze,  my  wounds  began  to 

bleed. 

I  knew  that  if  I  fell  again,  my  chance  of  life  was  gone, 
So,  leaning  on  the  standard-pole,  I  still  kept  struggling 

on. 
At  length  I  neared  the   camp-fire :   there  were  scarlet 

jackets  round, 
And  swords  and   brazen   helmets  lay  strewn  upon  the 

ground. 


192  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Some  distance  off,  in  order  ranged,  stood  men, — about 
a  score : 

0  God  !  'twas  all  that  now  remained  of  my  old  gallant 

corps ! 

The  muster-roll  was  being  called  :  to  every  well-known 
name 

1  heard  the  solemn  answer, — '  Dead ! '     At  length  my 

own  turn  came. 
I  paused  to  hear, — a  comrade  answered,  '  Dead  !  I  saw 

him  fall ! ' 

I  could  not  move  another  step,  I  tried  in  vain  to  call. 
My  life  was  flowing  fast,  and  all  around  was  gathering 

haze, 
And  o'er   the   heather    tops    I   watched    my   comrades' 

cheerful  blaze. 
I  thought  such  anguish  as   I  felt  was  more  than  man 

could  bear. 

0  God !  it  was  an  awful  thing  to  die  with  help  so  near  ! 
And  death  was  stealing  o'er  me :  with  the  strength  of 

wild  despair 

1  raised    the    standard    o'er   my   head,    and  waved   it 

through  the  air. 
Then  all  grew  dim  :  the  fire,  the  men,  all  vanished  from 

my  sight, 

My  senses  reeled  ;  I  know  no  more  of  that  eventful  night. 
'Twas  weeks  before  my  mind  came  back  :  I  knew  not 

where  I  lay, 
But  kindly  hands  were  round  me,  and  old  comrades  came 

each  day. 
They  told  me  how  the  waving  flag  that  night  had  caught 

their  eye, 
And  how  they  found  me  bleeding  there,  and  thought  that 

I  must  die ; 
They  brought  me  all  the  cheering  news, — the  war  was  at 

an  end. 

No  wonder  'twas,  with  all  their  care,  I  soon  began  to  mend. 
The  General  came  to  see  me,  too,  with  all  his  brilliant 

train, 
But  what  he  said,  or  how  I  felt,  to  tell  you  now  'twere  vaiu. 


JOHN  BOYLE  VREILLY.  193 

Enough,  I  soon  grew  strong  again  :  the  wished-for  route 

had  come, 
And  all  the  gallant  veteran  troops  set  out  with  cheers 

for  home. 
We  soon  arrived  ;  and  then,  my  lad,  'twould  thrill  your 

heart  to  hear 

How  England  welcomed  home  her  sons  with  many  a  ring 
ing  cheer. 
But  tush  !  what  boots  it  now  to  speak  of  what  was  said 

or  done  ? 
The  victory  was  dearly  bought,  our  bravest  hearts  were 

gone. 
Ere  long  the  King  reviewed  us.     Ah  !  that  memory  is 

sweet ! 

They  made  me  bear  the  foreign  flag,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet. 
I  parted  from  my  brave  old  corps :  'twere  matter,  lad, 

for  tears, 

To  leave  the  kind  old  comrades  I  had  ridden  with  for  years. 
I  was  no  longer  fit  for  war,  my  wanderings  had  to  cease. 
There,  boy,  I've  told  you  all  my  tales.  Now  let  me 

smoke  in  peace." 

How   vivid  grows  the  picture  now !    how   bright  each 

scene  appears ! 
I  trace  each  loved  and  long-lost  face  with  eyes  bedimmed 

in  tears. 
How  plain  I  hear  thee,  Uncle  Ned,  and  see  thy  musing 

look, 

Comparing  all  thy  glory  to  the  curling  wreaths  of  smoke! 
A  truer,  braver  soldier  ne'er  for  king  and  country  bled. 
His  wanderings  are  for  ever  o'er.     God  rest  thee,  Uncle 

Ned! 


WESTERN  A  USTRALIA. 

O  BEAUTEOUS  Southland  !  land  of  yellow  air, 

That  hangeth  o'er  thee  slumbering,  and  doth  hold 

The  moveless  foliage  of  thy  valleys  fair 
And  wooded  hills,  like  aureole  of  gold 

H 


1 94  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

0  thou,  discovered  ere  the  fitting  time, 

Ere  Nature  in  completion  turned  thee  forth  ! 

Ere  aught  was  finished  but  thy  peerless  clime, 
Thy  virgin  breath  allured  the  amorous  North. 

0  land,  God  made  thee  wondrous  to  the  eye  ! 

But  His  sweet  singers  thou  hast  never  heard ; 
He  left  thee,  meaning  to  come  by-and-bye, 

And  give  rich  voice  to  every  bright-winged  bird. 

He  painted  with  fresh  hues  thy  myriad  flowers, 
But  left  them  scentless :  ah  !  their  woeful  dole, 

Like  sad  reproach  of  their  Creator's  powers, — 
To  make  so  sweet  fair  bodies,  void  of  soul. 

He  gave  thee  trees  of  odorous  precious  wood ; 

But,  midst  them  all,  bloomed  not  one  tree  of  fruit. 
He  looked,  but  said  not  that  His  work  was  good, 

When  leaving  thee  all  perfumeless  and  mute. 

He  blessed  thy  flowers  with  honey  :  every  bell 
Looks  earthward,  sunward,  with  a  yearning  wist ; 

But  no  bee-lover  ever  notes  the  swell 

Of  hearts,  like  lips,  a-hungering  to  be  kist. 

O  strange  land,  thou  art  virgin  !  thou  art  more 
Than  fig-tree  barren  !     Would  that  I  could  paint 

For  others'  eyes  the  glory  of  the  shore 

Where  last  I  saw  thee  ;  but  the  senses  faint 

In  soft  delicious  dreaming  when  they  drain 
Thy  wine  of  colour.  Virgin  fair  thou  art, 

All  sweetly  fruitful,  waiting  with  soft  pain 

The  spouse  who  comes  to  wake  thy  sleeping  heart. 


DYING  IN  HARNESS. 

ONLY  a  fallen  horse,  stretched  out  there  on  the  road, 
Stretched  in  the  broken  shafts,  and  crushed  by  the  heavy 

load ; 

Only  a  fallen  horse,  and  a  circle  of  wondering  eyes 
Watching  the  'frighted  teamster  goading  the  beast  to  rise. 


JOHN  BO  YLE  O'REILL  Y.  195 

Hold  !  for  his  toil  is  over — no  more  labour  for  him  ; 
See  the  poor  neck  outstretched,   and  the  patient  eyes 

grow  dim  ; 

See  on  the  friendly  stones  how  peacefully  rests  the  head — 
Thinking,  if  dumb  beasts  think,  how  good  it  is  to  be 

dead  ; 

After  the  weary  journey,  how  restful  it  is  to  lie 
With  the  broken  shafts  and  the  cruel  load — waiting  only 

to  die. 

Watchers,  he  died  in  harness — died  in  the   shafts  and 

straps- 
Fell,  and  the  burden  killed  him :  one  of  the  day's  mis 
haps — - 

One  of  the  passing  wonders  marking  the  city  road — 
A  toiler  dying  in  harness,  heedless  of  call  or  goad. 

Passers,  crowding  the  pathway,  staying  your  steps  awhile, 
What  is  the  symbol  ?     Only  death — why  should  we  cease 

to  smile 
At  death  for  a  beast  of  burden  1     On,  through  the  busy 

street 
That  is  ever  and  ever  echoing  the  tread  of  the  hurrying 

feet. 

What  was  the  sign  ?     A  symbol  to  touch  the  tireless  will? 

Does  He  who  taught  in  parables  speak  in  parables  still  ? 

The  seed  on  the  rock  is  wasted — on  heedless  hearts  of  men, 

That  gather  and  sow  and  grasp  and  lose — labour  and 
sleep — and  then — 

Then  for  the  prize  ! A  crowd  in  the  street  of  ever- 
echoing  tread — 

The  toiler,  crushed  by  the  heavy  load,  is  there  in  his 
harness — dead ! 


196  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


IN  BOHEMIA. 

I'D  rather  live  in  Bohemia  than  in  any  other  land ; 

For  only  there  are  the  values  true, 

And  the  laurels  gathered  in  all  men's  view. 

The  prizes  of  traffic  and  state  are  won 

By  shrewdness  or  force  or  by  deeds  undone ; 

But  fame  is  sweeter  without  the  feud, 

And  the  wise  of  Bohemia  are  never  shrewd. 

Here,  pilgrims  stream  with  a  faith  sublime 

From  every  class  and  clime  and  time, 

Aspiring  only  to  be  enrolled 

With  the  names  that  are  writ  in  the  book  of  gold ; 

And  each  one  bears  in  mind  or  hand 

A  palm  of  the  dear  Bohemian  land. 

The  scholar  first,  with  his  book — a  youth 

Aflame  with  the  glory  of  harvested  truth ; 

A  girl  with  a  picture,  a  man  with  a  play, 

A  boy  with  a  wolf  he  has  modelled  in  clay  ; 

A  smith  with  a  marvellous  hilt  and  sword, 

A  player,  a  king,  a  ploughman,  a  lord — 

And  the  player  is  king  when  the  door  is  past. 

The  ploughman  is  crowned,  and  the  lord  is  last ! 

I'd  rather  fail  in  Bohemia  than  win  in  another  land  ; 

There  are  no  titles  inherited  there, 

No  hoard  or  hope  for  the  brainless  heir ; 

No  gilded  dullard  native  born 

To  stare  at  his  fellow  with  leaden  scorn  : 

Bohemia  has  none  but  adopted  sons ; 

Its  limits,  where  Fancy's  bright  stream  runs ; 

Its  honours,  not  garnered  for  thrift  or  trade, 

But  for  beauty  and  truth  men's  souls  have  made. 

To  the  empty  heart  in  a  jewelled  breast 

There  is  value,  maybe,  in  a  purchased  crest ; 

But  the  thirsty  of  soul  soon  learn  to  know 

The  moistureless  froth  of  the  social  show ; 

The  vulgar  sham  of  the  pompous  feast 

Where  the  heaviest  purse  is  the  highest  priest ; 


/.  H.  BONER.  197 

The  organised  charity,  scrimped  and  iced, 

In  the  name  of  a  cautious,  statistical  Christ ; 

The  smile  restrained,  the  respectable  cant, 

When  a  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  in  want ; 

Where  the  only  aim  is  to  keep  afloat, 

And  a  brother  may  drown  with  a  cry  in  his  throat. 

Oh,  I  long  for  the  glow  of  a  kindly  heart  and  the  grasp 

of  a  friendly  hand, 
And  I'd  rather  live  in  Bohemia  than  in  any  other  land. 


J.  H.  BONER. 

[Born  in  North  Carolina,  1845.  Author  of  Whispering  Pines 
(1883,  Brentano  &  Co.,  Washington),  from  which  the  poems 
given  are  quoted  by  special  permission.] 

WE   WALKED  AMONG  THE   WHISPERING 
PINES. 


IT  was  a  still  autumnal  day — 

So  sadly  strange  and  strangely  bright — 
The  hectic  glow  of  quick  decay 

Tinged  everything  with  lovely  light. 
It  warmly  touched  the  fragrant  air 

And  fields  of  corn  and  crumbling  vines 
Along  the  golden  Yadkin,  where 

We  walked  among  the  whispering  pines. 

II. 

Alas,  that  tender  hectic  glow 

Shone  in  her  gentle,  pallid  face, 
And  none  save  God  in  heaven  could  know 

My  agony  to  see  its  trace — 
To  watch  those  fatal  roses  bloom 

Upon  her  cheeks — red,  cruel  signs — 
But  all  of  love,  not  of  the  tomb, 

We  spoke  among  the  whispering  pines. 


198  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

in. 

Ah,  fatal  roses — never  yet 

Have  they  deceived.     She  drooped  and  died. 
We  parted  and  we  never  met 

Again  ;  but  often  at  my  side 
An  angel  walks — her  step  I  know — 

A  viewless  arm  my  neck  entwines  ; 
O,  angel  love,  so  years  ago 

We  walked  among  the  whispering  pines. 


THE  LIGHT OOD  FIRE. 

i. 
WHEN  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 

And  all  the  forest  ways  grow  still, 
When  gray  snow-laden  clouds  appear 

Along  the  bleak  horizon  hill, 
When  cattle  all  are  snugly  penned, 

And  sheep  go  huddling  close  together, 
When  steady  streams  of  smoke  ascend 

From  farm-house  chimneys — in  such  weather 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  great  log  house,  a  great  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  leaping  light'ood  fire. 

II. 

When  dreary  day  draws  to  a  close 
And  all  the  silent  land  is  dark, 
When  Boreas  down  the  chimney  blows 

And  sparks  fly  from  the  crackling  bark, 
When  limbs  are  bent  with  snow  or  sleet 

And  owls  hoot  from  the  hollow  tree, 
With  hounds  asleep  about  your  feet, 
Then  is  the  time  for  reverie. 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  hospitable  wide  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  rousing  light'ood  fire. 


MAURICE  THOMPSON.  199 

MAURICE  THOMPSON. 

[Born  at  Fairfield,  Indiana,  9th  September  1844.  Author  of 
Hoosier  Mosaics  (New  York,  1875)  ;  The  Witchery  of  Archery 
(1878) ;  A  Tallahassee  Girl  (Boston,  1882) ;  His  Second  Cam 
paign  (1882)  ;  Songs  of  Fair  Weather  (1883) ;  At  Love 's  Extremes 
(1885)  ;  Byu-ays  and  Bird  Notes  (1885)  ;  The  Boys'  Book  of 
Sports  (1886) ;  A  Banker  of  Bankersville  (1886);  Sylvan  Secrets 
(1887)  ;  The  Story  of  Louisiana,  and  A  Fortnight  of  Fol'y  (New 
York  1888).  The  poems  given  are  quoted  with  the  kind  per 
mission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  WHITE  HERON. 

CYPRESS    LAKE,    FLORIDA. 

/  PULLED  my  boat  with  even  sweep 
Across  light  shoals  and  eddies  deep, 

Tracking  the  currents  of  the  lake 
From  lettuce  raft  to  weedy  brake. 

Across  a  pool  death-still  and  dim 
I  saw  a  monster  reptile  swim, 

And  caught,  far  off  and  quickly  gone, 
The  delicate  outlines  of  a  fawn. 

Above  the  marshy  islands  flew 
The  green  teal  and  swift  curlew; 

The  rail  and  dunlin  drew  the  hem 
Of  lily-bonnets  over  them  ; 

I  saw  the  tufted  wood-duck  pass 
Between  the  wisps  of  water- grass. 

All  round  the  gunwales  and  across 
I  draped  my  boat  with  Spanish  moss, 

And,  lightly  down  from  head  to  knee, 
I  hung  gay  air-plants  over  me  ; 

Then,  lurking  like  a  savage  thing 
Crouching  for  a  treacherous  spring, 

I  stood  in  motionless  suspense 
Among  the  rushes  green  and  dense. 


200  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  kept  my  bow  half-drawn,  a  shaft 
Set  straight  across  the  velvet  haft. 

Alert  and  vigilant,  I  stood 
Scanning  the  lake,  the  sky,  the  wood. 

I  heard  a  murmur  soft  and  sad 
From  water-weed  to  lily-pad, 

And  from  the  frondous  pine  did  ring 
The  hammer  of  the  golden  wing. 

On  old  drift-logs  the  bitterns  stood. 
Dreaming  above  the  silent  flood  ; 

The  water-turkey  eyed  my  boat, 

The  hideous  snake-bird  coiled  its  throat, 

And  birds  whose  plumage  shone  like  flame, — 
Wild  things  grown  suddenly,  strangely  tarue,- 

Lit  near  me ;  but  I  heeded  not : 
They  could  not  tempt  me  to  a  shot. 

Grown  tired  at  length,  I  bent  the  oars 
By  grassy  brinks  and  shady  shores, 

Through  labyrinths  and  mysteries 
Mid  dusky  cypress  stems  and  knees, 

Until  I  reached  a  spot  I  knew, 
Over  which  each  day  the  herons  flew. 

I  heard  a  whisper  sweet  and  keen 
Flow  through  the  fringe  of  rushes  green, 

The  water  saying  some  light  thing, 
The  rushes  gaily  answering. 

The  wind  drew  faintly  from  the  south, 
Like  breath  blown  from  a  sleeper's  mouth, 

And  down  its  currents  sailing  low 
Came  a  lone  heron  white  as  snow. 


MAURICE  THOMPSON.  201 

He  cleft  with  grandly  spreading  wing 
The  hazy  sunshine  of  the  spring ; 

Through  graceful  curves  he  swept  above 
The  gloomy  moss-hung  cypress  grove  ; 

Then  gliding  down  a  long  incline, 
He  flashed  his  golden  eyes  on  mine. 

Half-turned  he  poised  himself  in  air, 
The  prize  was  great,  the  mark  was  fair  ! 

I  raised  my  bow,  and  steadily  drew 
The  silken  string  until  I  knew 

My  trusty  arrow's  barbed  point 
Lay  on  my  left  forefinger  joint, — 

Until  I  felt  the  feather  seek 

My  ear,  swift  drawn  across  my  cheek  : 

Then  from  my  fingers  leapt  the  string 
With  sharp  recoil  and  deadly  ring, 

Closed  by  a  sibilant  sound  so  shrill, 
It  made  the  very  water  thrill, — 

Like  twenty  serpents  bound  together, 
Hissed  the  flying  arrow's  feather  ! 

A  thud,  a  puff,  a  feathery  ring, 
A  quick  collapse,  a  quivering, — 

A  whirl,  a  headlong  downward  dash, 
A  heavy  fall,  a  sullen  splash, 

And  like  white  foam,  or  giant  flake 
Of  snow,  he  lay  upon  the  lake  ! 

And  of  his  death  the  rail  was  glad, 
Strutting  upon  a  lily -pad ; 

The  jaunty  wood-duck  smiled  and  bowed  ; 
The  belted  kingfisher  laughed  aloud, 


202  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Making  the  solemn  bittern  stir 
Like  a  half-wakened  slumberer ; 

And  rasping  notes  of  joy  were  heard 
From  gallinule  and  crying-bird, 

The  while  with  trebled  noise  did  ring 
The  hammer  of  the  golden-wing  ! 


CERES. 

THE  wheat  was  flowing  ankle-deep 
Across  the  field  from  side  to  side  ; 

And,  dipping  in  the  emerald  waves, 
The  swallows  flew  in  circles  wide. 

The  sun,  a  moment  flaring  red, 
Shot  level  rays  athwart  the  world, 

Then  quenched  his  fire  behind  the  hills, 
With  rosy  vapours  o'er  him  curled. 

A  sweet,  insinuating  calm, — 

A  calm  just  one  remove  from  sleep, 

Such  as  a  tranquil  watcher  feels, 

Seeing  mild  stars  at  midnight  sweep 

Through  splendid  purple  deeps,  and  swing 
Their  old,  ripe  clusters  down  the  west 

To  where,  on  undiscovered  hills, 

The  gods  have  gathered  them  to  rest, — 

A  calm  like  that  hung  over  all 

The  dusky  groves,  and,  filtered  through 
The  thorny  hedges,  touched  the  wheat 

Till  every  blade  was  bright  with  dew. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     We  call  things  dreams 
When  we  must  needs  do  so,  or  own 

Belief  in  old,  exploded  myths, 

Whose  very  smoke  has  long  since  flown. 


MAURICE  THOMPSON.  203 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  Mine  own  eyes  saw, 
And  Ceres  came  across  the  wheat 

That,  like  bright  water,  dimpled  round 
The  golden  sandals  of  her  feet. 


DIANA. 

SHE  had  a  bow  of  yellow  horn 
Like  the  old  moon  at  early  morn. 

She  had  three  arrows  strong  and  good, 
Steel  set  in  feathered  cornel  wood. 

Like  purest  pearl  her  left  breast  shone 
Above  her  kirtle's  emerald  zone ; 

Her  right  was  bound  in  silk  well-knit, 
Lest  her  bow-string  should  sever  it. 

Ripe  lips  she  had,  and  clear  grey  eyes, 
And  hair  pure  gold  blown  hoyden-wise 

Across  her  face  like  shining  mist 

That  with  dawn's  flush  is  faintly  kissed. 

Her  limbs  !  how  matched  and  round  and  fine  ! 
How  free  like  song  !  how  strong  like  wine  ! 

And,  timed  to  music  wild  and  sweet, 
How  swift  her  silver-sandalled  feet ! 

Single  of  heart  and  strong  of  hand, 
Wind-like  she  wandered  through  the  land. 

No  man  (or  king  or  lord  or  churl) 
Dared  whisper  love  to  that  fair  girl. 

And  woe  to  him  who  came  upon 
Her  nude,  at  bath,  like  Acteon ! 

So  dire  his  fate,  that  one  who  heard 
The  flutter  of  a  bathing  bird. 


204  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

What  time  he  crossed  a  breezy  wood, 
Felt  sudden  quickening  of  his  blood ; 

Cast  one  swift  look,  then  ran  away 

Far  through  the  green,  thick  groves  of  May ; 

Afeard,  lest  down  the  wind  of  spring 
He'd  hear  an  arrow  whispering  ! 


AN  EXILE. 

i. 

THE  singing  streams,  and  deep,  dark  wood 
Beloved  of  old  by  Robin  Hood, 

Lift  me  a  voice,  kiss  me  a  hand, 
To  call  me  from  the  younger  land, 

What  time  by  dull  Floridian  lakes, 
What  time  by  rivers  fringed  with  brakes, 

I  blow  the  reed,  and  draw  the  bow, 
And  see  my  whistling  arrows  go 

Well  sent  to  deer  or  wary  hare, 
Or  wild-fowl  hurtling  down  the  air  ; 

What  time  I  lie  in  shady  spots 
On  beds  of  mild  forget-me-nots, 

That  fringe  the  fen-lands  insincere 
And  boggy  marges  of  the  mere, 

Whereon  I  see  the  heron  stand, 
Knee-deep  in  sable  slush  of  sand, — 

I  think  how  sweet  if  friends  should  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

II. 

I  keep  good  heart,  and  bide  my  time, 
And  blow  the  bubbles  of  my  rhyme ; 

I  wait  and  watch,  for  soon  I  know 
In  Sherwood  merry  horns  shall  blow, 


MAURICE  THOMPSON.  205 

And  blow  and  blow,  and  folk  shall  come 
To  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

Mother  of  archers,  then  I  go 
Wind-blown  to  you  with  bended  bow, 

To  stand  close  up  by  you  and  ask 
That  it  be  my  appointed  task 

To  sing  in  leal  and  loyal  lays 

Your  matchless  bowmen's  meed  of  praise  ; 

And  that  unchallenged  I  may  go 

Through  your  green  woods  with  bended  bow, — 

Your  woods  where  bowered  and  hidden  stood 
Of  old  the  home  of  Robin  Hood. 

Ah,  this  were  sweet,  and  it  will  come 
When  Merry  England  calls  me  home  ! 

in. 

Perchance,  long  hence,  it  may  befall, 
Or  soon,  mayhap,  or  not  at  all, 

That  all  my  songs  nowhither  sent, 
And  all  my  shafts  at  random  spent, 

May  find  their  way  to  those  who  love 
The  simple  force  and  truth  thereof  ; 

Wherefore  my  name  shall  then  be  rung 
Across  the  land  from  tongue  to  tongue, 

Till  some  who  hear  shall  haste  to  come 
With  news  that  England  calls  me  home. 

I  walk  where  spiced  winds  raff  the  blades 
Of  sedge-grass  on  the  summer  glades ; 

Through  purfled  braids  that  fringe  the  mere 
I  watch  the  timid  tawny  deer 

Set  its  quick  feet  and  quake  and  spring, 
As  if  it  heard  some  deadly  thing, 


206  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

When  but  a  brown  snipe  flutters  by 
With  rustling  wing  and  piping  cry ; 

I  stand  in  some  dim  place  at  dawn, 
And  see  across  a  forest  lawn 

The  tall  wild-turkeys  swiftly  pass 
Light-footed  through  the  dewy  grass ; 

I  shout,  and  wind  my  horn,  and  go 

The  whole  morn  through  with  bended  bow, 

Then  on  my  rest  I  feel  at  noon 
Sown  pulvil  of  the  blooms  of  June ; 

I  live  and  keep  no  count  of  time, 
I  blow  the  bubbles  of  my  rhyme  : 

These  are  my  joys  till  friends  shall  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

IV. 

The  self-yew  bow  was  England's  boast ; 
She  leaned  upon  her  archer  host, — 

It  was  her  very  life-support 
At  Crecy  and  at  Agincourt, 

At  Flodden  and  at  Halidon  Hill, 
And  fields  of  glory  redder  still ! 

O  bows  that  rang  at  Sol  way  Moss ! 
O  yeomanry  of  Neville's  Cross  ! 

These  were  your  victories,  for  by  you 
Breastplate  and  shield  were  cloven  through ; 

And  mailed  knights,  at  every  joint 
Sore  wounded  by  an  arrow-point, 

Drew  rein,  turned  pale,  reeled  in  the  sell, 
And,  bristled  with  arrows,  gasped  and  fell  I 

O  barbed  points  that  scratched  the  name 
Of  England  on  the  walls  of  fame  1 


MAURICE  THOMPSON.  207 

O  music  of  the  ringing  cords 

Set  to  grand  songs  of  deeds,  not  words ! 

0  yeomen  !  for  your  memory's  sake, 
These  bubbles  of  my  rhyme  I  make, — 

Not  rhymes  of  conquest  stem  and  sad, 
Or  hoarse-voiced,  like  the  Iliad, 

But  soft  and  dreamful  as  the  sigh 
Of  this  sweet  wind  that  washes  by, — 

The  while  I  wait  for  friends  to  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 

v. 

1  wait  and  wait ;  it  would  be  sweet 
To  feel  the  sea  beneath  my  feet, 

And  hear  the  breeze  sing  in  the  shrouds 
Betwixt  me  and  the  white-winged  clouds, — 

To  feel  and  know  my  heart  should  soon 
Have  its  desire,  its  one  sweet  boon 

To  look  out  on  the  foarn-sprent  waste 
Through  which  my  vessel's  keel  would  haste, 

Till  on  the  far  horizon  dim 

A  low  white  line  would  shine  and  swim  ! 

The  low  white  line,  the  gleaming  strand, 
The  pale  cliffs  of  the  Mother-land ! 

Oh  God !  the  very  thought  is  bliss, 
The  burden  of  my  song  it  is, 

Till  over  sea  song-blown  shall  come 
The  news  that  England  calls  me  home  ! 

VI. 

Ah,  call  me,  England,  some  sweet  day 
When  these  brown  locks  are  silvergrey, 

And  these  brown  arms  are  shrunken  small, 
Unfit  for  deeds  of  strengtli  at  all ; 


208  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

When  the  swift  deer  shall  pass  me  by, 
Whilst  all  unstrung  my  bow  shall  lie, 

And  birds  shall  taunt  me  with  the  time 
I  wasted  making  foolish  rhyme, 

And  wasted  blowing  in  a  reed 

The  runes  of  praise,  the  yeoman's  meed, 

And  wasted  dreaming  foolish  dreams 
Of  English  woods  and  English  streams, 

Of  grassy  glade  and  queachy  fen 
Beloved  of  old  by  archer  men, 

And  of  the  friends  who  would  not  come 
To  tell  me  England  called  me  home. 

VII. 

Such  words  are  sad  :  blow  them  away 
And  lose  them  in  the  leaves  of  May, 

O  wind  !  and  leave  them  there  to  rot, 
Like  random  arrows  lost  when  shot ; 

And  here,  these  better  thoughts,  take  these 
And  blow  them  far  across  the  seas, 

To  that  old  land  and  that  old  wood 
Which  hold  the  dust  of  Robin  Hood  ! 

Say  this,  low-speaking  in  my  place  : 
"  The  last  of  all  the  archer  race 

"  Sends  this  his  sheaf  of  rhymes  to  those 
Whose  fathers  bent  the  self-yew  bows, 

"  And  made  the  cloth-yard  arrows  ring 
For  merry  England  and  her  King, 

"  Wherever  Lion  Richard  set 
His  fortune's  stormy  banneret !  " 

Say  this,  and  then,  oh,  haste  to  come 
And  tell  me  England  calls  me  home. 


WILL  CARLETON.  209 

WILL  CARLETON. 

[Born  in  Michigan,  1845.  Author  of  Farm  Ballads  (1873)  ;  Farm 
Legends  (1875) ;  Young  Folks'  Rhymes  (1876)  ;  Farm  Festivals 
(1881)  ;  City  Ballads  (1885) ;  City  Legends  (1889).  All  these 
are  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  York,  with  whoae 
kind  permission  the  "  First  Settler's  Story  "  is  quoted.  It  is 
taken  from  Farm  Festivals.] 

THE  FIRST  SETTLERS  STORY. 

IT  ain't  the  funniest  thing  a  man  can  do 
Existing  in  a  country  when  it's  new ; 
Nature — who  moved  in  first — a  good  long  while — 
Has  things  already  somewhat  her  own  style, 
And  she  don't  want  her  woodland  splendours  battered, 
Her  rustic  furniture  broke  up  and  scattered, 
Her  paintings,  which  long  years  ago  were  done 
By  that  old  splendid  artist-king,  the  sun, 
Torn  down  and  dragged  in  Civilisation's  gutter, 
Or  sold  to  purchase  settlers'  bread  and  butter. 
She  don't  want  things  exposed,  from  porch  to  closet — 
And  so  she  kind  o'  nags  the  man  who  does  it. 
She  carries  in  her  pockets  bags  of  seeds, 
As  general  agent  of  the  thriftiest  weeds  ; 
She  sends  her  blackbirds  in  the  early  morn, 
To  superintend  his  fields  of  planted  corn ; 
She  gives  him  rain  past  any  duck's  desire — 
Then  maybe  several  weeks  of  quiet  fire ; 
She  sails  mosquitoes — leeches  perched  on  wings — 
To  poison  him  with  blood-devouring  stings ; 
She  loves  her  ague-muscles  to  display, 
And  shake  him  up  say  every  other  day  ; 
With  careful,  conscientious  care,  she  makes 
Those  travelling  poison-bottles,  rattlesnakes ; 
She  finds  time,  'mongst  her  other  family  cares, 
To  keep  in  stock  good  wild-cats,  wolves,  and  bears ; 
She  spurns  his  offered  hand,  with  silent  gibes, 
And  compromises  with  the  Indian  tribes 
(For  they  who've  wrestled  with  his  bloody  art 
Say  Natxire  always  takes  an  Indian's  part); 
o 


2io  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

In  short,  her  toil  is  every  day  increased, 
To  scare  him  out,  and  hustle  him  back  east ; 
Till  fin'lly,  it  appears  to  her  some  day, 
That  he  has  made  arrangements  for  to  stay; 
Then  she  turns  round  as  sweet  as  anything, 
And  takes  her  new  made  friend  into  the  ring, 
And  changes  from  a  snarl  into  a  purr : 
From  mother-in-law  to  mother  as  it  were. 

Well,  when  I  first  infested  this  retreat, 
Things  to  my  view  looked  frightful  incomplete ; 
But  nature  seemed  quite  cheerful,  all  about  me, 
A-carrying  on  her  different  trades  without  me, 
These  words  the  forest  seemed  at  me  to  throw: 
"  Sit  down  and  rest  awhile  before  you  go ; " 
From  bees  to  trees  the  whole  woods  seemed  to  say 
"  You're  welcome  here  till  you  can  get  away, 
But  not  for  time  of  any  longer  amount ; 
So  don't  be  hanging  round  on  our  account." 
But  I  had  come  with  heart-thrift  in  my  song, 
And  brought  my  wife  and  plunder  right  along ; 
I  hadn't  a  round-trip  ticket  to  go  back, 
And  if  I  had,  there  wasn't  no  railroad  track; 
And  driving  east  was  what  I  couldn't  endure  : 
I  hadn't  started  on  a  circular  tour. 

My  girl-wife  was  as  brave  as  she  was  good, 
And  helped  me  every  blessed  way  she  could ; 
She  seemed  to  take  to  every  rough  old  tree, 
As  sing'lar  as  when  first  she  took  to  me. 
She  kep'  our  little  log-house  neat  as  wax ; 
And  once  I  caught  her  fooling  with  my  axe. 
She  learned  a  hundred  masculine  things  to  do 
She  aimed  a  shot-gun  pretty  middlin'  true, 
Although  in  spite  of  my  express  desire, 
She  always  shut  her  eyes  before  she'd  fire, 
She  hadn't  the  muscle  (though  she  had  the  heart) 
In  out-door  work  to  take  an  active  part ; 
Though  in  our  firm  of  Duty  and  Endeavour, 
She  wasn't  no  silent  partner  whatsoever. 


WILL  CARLE  TON.  211 

When  I  was  logging,  burning,  choppin*  wood — 
She'd  linger  round,  and  help  me  all  she  could, 
And  kept  me  fresh-ambitious  all  the  while, 
And  lifted  tons,  just  with  her  voice  and  smile. 
With  no  desire  my  glory  for  to  rob, 
She  used  to  stan'  around  and  boss  the  job; 
And  when  first-class  success  my  hands  befell, 
Would  proudly  say,  "  We  did  that  pretty  well !  " 
She  was  delicious,  both  to  hear  and  see — 
That  pretty  wife-girl  that  kept  house  for  me. 

Sundays,  we  didn't  propose  for  lack  o'  church 

To  have  our  souls  left  wholly  in  the  lurch ; 

And  so  I  shaved  and  dressed  up  well's  I  could, 

And  did  a  day's  work  trying  to  be  good. 

My  wife  was  always  bandbox-sleek  ;  and  when 

Our  fat  old  bull's-eye  watch  said  half-past  ten 

('Twas  always  verging  from  the  narrow  way, 

And  li'd  on  Sundays,  same  as  any  day), 

The  family  Bible  from  its  high  perch  started 

(The  one  her  mother  gave  her  when  we  parted), 

The  hymn-book,  full  of  music-balm  and  fire — 

The  one  she  used  to  sing  in  in  the  choir — 

One  I  sang  with  her  from — I've  got  it  yet — 

The  very  first  time  that  we  really  met ; 

(I  recollect,  when  first  our  voices  gibed, 

A  feeling  that  declines  to  be  described  ! 

And  when  our  eyes  met — near  the  second  verse — 

A  kind  of  old-acquaintance  look  in  hers, 

And  something  went  from  mine,  which,  I  declare, 

I  never  even  knew  before  was  there — 

And  when  our  hands  touched — slight  as  slight  could  be— 

A  streak  of  sweetened  lightnin'  thrilled  through  me  ! 

But  that's  enough  of  that :  perhaps,  even  now, 

You'll  think  I'm  softer  than  the  law'll  allow ; 

But  you'll  protect  an  old  man  with  his  age, 

For  yesterday  I  turned  my  eightieth  page ; 

Besides  there'd  be  less  couples  falling  out 

If  such  things  were  more  freely  talked  about.) 


212  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Well,  we  would  take  these  books — sit  down  alone, 

And  have  a  two-horse  meeting,  all  our  own ; 

And  read  our  verses,  sing  the  sacred  rhymes, 

And  make  it  seem  a  good  deal  like  old  times. 

But  finally  across  her  face  there'd  glide 

A  sort  of  sorry  shadow,  from  inside ; 

And  once  she  bared  her  head,  like  a  tired  flower, 

Upon  my  arm,  and  cried  a  half-an-hour. 

I  humoured  her  until  she  had  it  out, 

And  didn't  ask  her  what  it  was  about ; 

I  knew  right  well :  our  reading,  song,  and  prayer, 

Had  brought  the  old  times  back,  too  true  and  square. 

The  large  attended  meetings  morn  and  night ; 

The  spiritual  and  mental  warmth  and  light; 

Her  father,  in  his  pew,  next  to  the  aisle ; 

Her  mother,  with  the  mother  of  her  smile; 

Her  brother's  sly,  forbidden  Sunday  glee; 

Her  sisters,  e'en  a-rnost  as  sweet  as  she ; 

Her  girl  and  boy  friends,  not  too  warm  or  cool; 

Her  little  scrub  class  in  the  Sunday-school ; 

The  social,  and  the  singings  and  the  ball ; 

And  happy  home-cheer  waiting  for  them  all — • 

These  marched  in  close  procession  through  her  mind, 

And  didn't  forget  to  leave  their  tracks  behind. 

You  married  men — there's  many  in  my  view — 

Don't  think  your  wife  can  all  wrap  up  in  you, 

Don't  deem,  though  close  her  life  to  yours  may  grow, 

That  you  are  all  the  folks  she  wants  to  know ; 

Or  think  your  stitches  form  the  only  part 

Of  the  crotchet-work  of  a  woman's  heart. 

Though  married  souls  each  other's  lives  may  burnish, 

Each  needs  some  help  the  other  cannot  furnish. 

Well,  neighbourhoods  meant  counties,  in  those  days ; 

The  roads  didn't  have  accommodating  ways  ; 

And  maybe  weeks  would  pass  before  she'd  see — 

And  much  less  talk  with — any  one  but  me. 

The  Indians  sometimes  showed  their  sun-baked  faces, 

But  they  didn't  teem  with  conversational  graces  ; 


WILL  CAKLETON.  213 

Some  ideas  from  the  birds  and  trees  she  stole, 

But  'twasn't  like  talking  with  a  human  soul ; 

And  finally  I  thought  that  I  could  trace 

A  half-heart-lmnger  peering  from  her  face. 

Then  she  would  drive  it  back,  and  shut  the  door  ; 

Of  course  that  ouly  made  me  see  it  more. 

'Twas  hard  to  see  her  give  her  life  to  mine, 

Making  a  steady  effort  not  to  pine ; 

'Twas  hard  to  hear  the  laugh  bloom  out  each  minute, 

And  recognise  the  seeds  of  sorrow  in  it ; 

No  misery  makes  a  close  observer  mourn, 

Like  hopeless  grief  with  hopeful  courage  borne ; 

There's  nothing  sets  the  sympathies  to  paining, 

Like  a  complaining  woman,  uncomplaining  ! 

It  always  draws  my  breath  out  into  sighs, 

To  see  a  brave  look  in  a  woman's  eyes. 

Well  she  went  on,  as  plucky  as  could  be, 

Fighting  the  foe  she  thought  I  did  not  see, 

And  using  her  heart-horticultural  powers 

To  turn  the  forest  to  a  bed  of  flowers. 

You  can  not  check  an  unadmitted  sigh, 

And  so  I  had  to  soothe  her  on  the  sly, 

And  secretly  to  help  her  draw  her  load  ; 

And  soon  it  came  to  be  an  uphill  road  ; 

Hard  work  bears  hard  upon  the  average  pulse, 

Even  with  satisfactory  results ; 

But  when  effects  are  scarce,  the  heavy  strain 

Falls  dead  and  solid  on  the  heart  and  brain. 

And  when  we're  bothered,  it  will  oft  occur 

We  seek  blame-timber ;  and  I  lit  on  her  ; 

And  looked  at  her  with  daily  lessening  favour, 

For  what  I  knew  she  couldn't  help,  to  save  her. 

(We  often — what  our  minds  should  blush  with  shame  for — 

Blame  people  most  for  what  they're  least  to  blame  for.) 

Then  there:d  a  misty  jealous  thought  occur, 

Because  I  wasn't  Earth  and  Heaven  to  her, 

And  all  the  planets  that  about  us  hovered, 

And  several  more  than  hadn't  been  discovered  ; 


214  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  rny  hard  muscle-labour,  day  by  day, 

Deprived  good-nature  of  the  right  of  way; 

And  'taint  no  use — the  trying  to  conceal 

From  hearts  that  love  us  what  our  own  hearts  feel ; 

They  can't  escape  close  observation's  mesh — 

And  thoughts  have  tongues  that  are  not  made  of  flesh. 

And  so  ere  long  she  caught  the  half -grown  fact : 

Commenced  observing  how  I  didn't  act ; 

And  silently  began  to  grieve  and  doubt 

O'er  old  attentions  now  sometimes  left  out — 

Some  kind  caress — some  little  petting  ways 

Commenced  a-staying  in  on  rainy  days 

(I  did  not  see  it  clear  then,  I'll  allow ; 

Biit  I  can  trace  it  rather  acc'rate  now)  ; 

And  Discord,  when  once  he  had  called  and  seen  us, 

Came  round  quite  often,  and  edged  in  between  us. 

One  Bight,  I  came  from  work  unusual  late, 
Too  hungry  and  too  tired  to  feel  first-rate — 
Her  supper  struck  me  wrong  (though  I'll  allow 
She  hadn't  much  to  strike  with,  any  how)  : 
And  when  I  went  to  milk  the  cows,  and  found 
They'd  wandered  from  their  usual  feeding  ground, 
And  maybe'd  left  a  few  long  miles  behind  'em, 
Which  I  must  copy,  if  I  meant  to  find  'em, 
Flash-quick  the  stay-chains  of  my  temper  broke, 
And  in  a  trice  these  hot  words  I  had  spoke : 
"You  ought  to  have  kept  the  animals  in  view, 
And  drove  'em  in ;  you'd  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  heft  of  all  our  life  on  me  must  fall, 
You  just  lie  round,  and  let  me  do  it  all." 

That  speech — it  hadn't  gone  a  half  a  minute, 

Before  I  saw  the  cold  black  poison  in  it ; 

And  I'd  have  given  all  I  had  and  more, 

To've  only  safely  got  it  back  in-door. 

I'm  now  what  most  folks  "  well-to-do  "  would  call : 

I  feel  to-day  as  if  I'd  give  ii  all, 

Provided  1  through  fifty  years  might  reach, 

And  kill  and  bury  that  halt-minute  speech 


WILL  CARLETON.  215 

Boys  flying  kites  haul  in  their  white-winged  birds  ; 
You  can't  do  that  way  when  you're  flying  words, 
Thoughts  unexpressed  may  sometimes  fall  back  dead  : 
But  God  Himself  can't  kill  them  when  they're  said. 

She  handed  back  no  words,  as  I  could  hear ; 

She  didn't  frown — she  didn't  shed  a  tear ; 

Half  proud,  half  crushed,  she  stood  and  looked  me  o'er, 

Like  some  one  she  had  never  seen  before  ! 

But  such  a  sudden  anguish-lit  surprise 

I  never  viewed  before  in  human  eyes. 

(I've  seen  it  enough  since  in  a  dream ; 

It  sometimes  wakes  me,  like  a  midnight  scream). 

That  night,  while  theoretically  sleeping, 

I  half  heard  and  half  felt  that  she  was  weeping ; 

And  my  heart  then  projected  a  design 

To  softly  draw  her  face  up  close  to  mine, 

And  beg  of  her  forgiveness  to  bestow, 

For  saying  what  we  both  knew  wasn't  so. 

I've  got  enough  of  this  world's  goods  to  do  me, 

And  make  my  nephews  painfully  civil  to  me : 

I'd  give  it  all  to  know  she  only  knew 

How  near  I  came  to  what  was  square  and  true. 

But  somehow,  every  single  time  I'd  try, 

Pride  would  appear  and  kind  o'  catch  my  eye, 

And  hold  me,  on  the  edge  of  my  advance, 

With  the  cool  steel  of  one  sly,  scornful  glance. 

Next  morning,  when,  stone-faced,  but  heavy-hearted, 

With  dinner  pail  and  sharpened  axe  I  started 

Away  for  my  day's  work — she  watched  the  door, 

And  followed  me  half-way  to  it  or  more ; 

And  I  was  just  a-turning  round  at  this, 

And  asking  for  my  usual  good-bye  kiss  ; 

But  on  her  lip  I  saw  a  proudish  curve, 

And  in  her  eye  a  shadow  of  reserve  ; 

And  she  had  shown — perhaps  half  unawares — 

Some  little  independent  breakfast  airs — 

And  so  the  usual  parting  didn't  occur  ; 

Although  her  eyes  invited  me  to  her, 


216  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Or  rather  half  invited  me  ;  for  she 

Didn't  advertise  to  furnish  kisses  free, 

You  always  had — that  is,  I  had — to  pay 

Full  market  price,  and  go  more'n  half  the  way. 

So,  with  a  short  "  Good-bye,"  I  shut  the  door, 

And  left  her  as  I  never  had  before. 

Now,  when  a  man  works  with  his  muscle  smartly, 

It  makes  him  up  into  machinery,  partly ; 

And  any  trouble  he  may  have  on  baud 

Gets  deadened  like,  and  easier  to  stand. 

And  though  the  memory  of  last  night's  mistake 

Bothered  me  with  a  dull  and  heavy  ache, 

I  all  the  forenoon  gave  my  strength  full  rein, 

And  made  the  wounded  trees  bear  half  the  pain. 

But  when  at  noon  my  lunch  I  came  to  eat, 

Put  up  by  her  so  delicately  neat — 

Choicer,  somewhat,  than  yesterday's  had  been, 

And  some  fresh,  sweet-eyed  pansies  she'd  put  in — 

"  Tender  and  pleasant  thoughts,"  I  knew  they  rneant- 

It  seemed  as  if  her  kiss  with  me  she'd  sent ; 

Then  I  became  once  more  her  humble  lover, 

And  said,  "  To-night  I'll  ask  forgiveness  of  her." 

I  went  home  over-early  on  that  eve, 
Having  contrived  to  make  myself  believe, 
By  various  signs  I  kind  o'  knew  and  guessed, 
A  thunder-storm  was  coming  from  the  west. 
('Tis  strange,  when  one  sly  reason  fills  the  heart, 
How  many  honest  ones  will  take  its  part ; 
A  dozen  first-class  reasons  said  'twas  right 
That  I  should  strike  home  early  on  that  night.) 

Half  out  of  breath,  the  cabin  door  I  swung, 

With  tender  heart-words  trembling  on  my  tongue  ; 

But  all  within  looked  desolate  and  bare ; 

My  house  had  lost  its  soul — she  was  not  there  ! 

A  pencilled  note  was  on  the  table  spread, 

And  these  are  something  like  the  words  it  said : 

"  The  cows  have  strayed  away  again,  I  fear ; 

1  watched  them  pretty  close ;  don't  scold  me,  dear 


WILL  CARLETON.  217 

And  where  they  are,  I  think  I  nearly  know  ; 
I  heard  the  bell  not  very  long  ago — 

I've  hunted  for  them  all  the  afternoon ; 
I'll  try  once  more — I  think  I'll  find  them  soon. 
Dear,  if  a  burden  I  have  been  to  you. 
And  hav'n't  helped  you  as  I  ought  to  do, 
Let  old-time  memories  my  forgiveness  plead  ; 
I've  tried  to  do  my  best — I  have,  indeed. 
Darling,  piece  out  with  love  the  strength  I  lack, 
And  have  kind  words  for  me  when  I  get  back." 

Scarce  did  I  give  this  letter  sight  and  tongue, 
Some  swift-blown  rain-drops  to  the  window  clung, 
And  from  the  clouds  a  rough,  deep  growl  proceeded ; 
My  thunder-storm  had  come,  now  'twasn't  needed. 
I  rushed  out  door ;  the  air  was  stained  with  black ; 
Night  had  come  early,  on  the  storm-cloud's  back. 
And  everything  kept  dimming  to  the  sight, 
Save  when  the  clouds  threw  their  electric  light ; 
When,  for  a  flash,  so  clean-cut  was  the  view, 
I'd  think  I  saw  her — knowing  'twas  not  true. 
Through  my  small  clearing  dashed  wide  sheets  of  spray 
As  if  the  ocean  waves  had  lost  their  way ; 
Scarcely  a  pause  the  thunder-battle  made, 
In  the  cold  clamour  of  its  cannonade. 
And  she,  while  I  was  sheltered,  dry  and  warm, 
Was  somewhere  in  the  clutches  of  the  storm  ! 
She  who,  when  storm-frights  found  her  at  her  best, 
Had  always  hid  her  white  face  on  my  breast ! 

My  dog,  who'd  skirmished  round  me  all  the  day, 
Now  crouched  and  whimpering  in  a  corner  lay : 
I  dragged  him  by  the  collar  to  the  wall — 
I  pressed  his  quivering  muzzle  to  a  shawl — 
"  Track  her,  old  boy  !  "  I  shouted  ;  and  he  whined, 
Matched  eyes  with  me,  as  if  to  read  my  mind, 
Then  with  a  yell  went  tearing  through  the  wood— 
I  followed  him,  as  faithful  as  I  could. 


218  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

No  pleasure-trip  was  that,  through  flood  and  flame ! 

We  raced  with  death, — we  hunted  noble  game. 

All  night  we  dragged  the  woods  without  avail ; 

The  leaves  got  drenched — we  could  not  keep  the  trail. 

Three  times  again  my  cabin  home  I  found, 

Half  hoping  she  might  be  there  safe  and  sound ; 

But  each  time  'twas  an  unavailing  care, 

My  house  had  lost  its  soul ;  she  was  not  there  ! 

When,  climbing  the  wet  trees,  next  morning-sun 

Laughed  at  the  ruin  that  the  night  had  done, 

Bleeding  and  drenched — by  toil  and  sorrow  bent — 

Back  to  what  used  to  be  my  home  I  went. 

But  as  I  neared  our  little  clearing-ground — 

Listen  ! — I  heard  the  cow-bell's  tinkling  sound  ; 

The  cabin  door  was  just  a  bit  ajar  ; 

It  gleamed  upon  my  glad  eyes  like  a  star ! 

"  Brave  heart,"  I  said,  "  for  such  a  fragile  form  ! 

She  made  them  guide  her  homeward  through  the  storm  !  " 

Such  pangs  of  joy  I  never  felt  before  : 

"  You've  come  !  "  I  shouted,  and  rushed  through  the  door. 

Yes,  she  had  come — and  gone  again. — She  lay 

With  all  her  young  life  crushed  and  wrenched  away — 

Lay — the  heart-ruins  of  our  home  among — 

Not  far  from  where  I  killed  her  with  my  tongue. 

The  rain-drops  glittered  'mid  her  hair's  long  strands, 

The  forest-thorns  had  torn  her  feet  and  hands, 

But  'midst  the  tears — brave  tears — that  I  could  trace 

Upon  the  pale  but  sweetly  resolute  face, 

I  once  again  the  mournful  words  could  read — 

"  I've  tried  to  do  my  best — I  have  indeed." 

And  now  I'm  mostly  done  :  my  story's  o'er — 
Part  of  it  never  breathed  the  air  before. 
'Tisn't  over-usual,  it  must  be  allowed, 
To  volunteer  heart-history  to  a  crowd, 
And  scatter  'mongst  them  confidential  tears, 
But  you'll  protect  an  old  man  with  his  years ; 
And  wheresoe'er  this  story's  voice  can  reach 
This  is  the  sermon  I  would  have  it  preach  : 


EDGAR  FA  WCE  TT.  219 

Boys  flying  kites  haul  in  their  white-winged  birds ; 
You  can't  do  that  way  when  you're  flying  words. 
"  Careful  with  fire,"  is  good  advice  we  know : 
"  Careful  with  words,"  is  ten  times  doubly  so. 
Thoughts  unexpressed  may  sometimes  fall  back  dead  ; 
But  God  Himself  can't  kill  them  when  they're  said  ! 
You  have  my  life-grief :  do  not  think  a  minute 
'Twas  told  to  take  up  time.     There's  business  in  it. 
It  sheds  advice ;  whoe'er  will  take  and  live  it, 
Is  welcome  to  the  pain  it  costs  to  give  it. 


EDGAR  FAWCETT. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  26th  May  1847.  Author  of  Fantasy  and 
Passion  (Boston,  1878);  Song  and  Story  (1884);  Romance  and 
Revert/  (1886).  Mr  Fawcett  is  also  the  author  of  numerous 
novels,  besides  one  or  two  books  of  essays.  The  poems  from 
Fantasy  and  Passion  are  given  with  the  kind  permission  of 
Roberts  Brothers,  and  the  others  with  the  kind  permission 
of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

IMPERFECTION. 

WHENCE  comes  the  old  silent  charrn  whose  tender  stress 

Has  many  a  mother  potently  beguiled 
To  leave  her  rosier  children,  and  caress 

The  white  brow  of  the  frail  misshapen  child  ? 
Ah  !  whence  the  mightier  charm  that  age  by  age 

Has  lured  so  many  a  man,  through  spells  unknown, 
To  serve  for  years,  in  reverent  vassalage, 

A  beauteous  bosom  and  a  heart  of  stone. 


THE  PUNISHMENT. 
Two  haggard  shades,  in  robes  of  mist, 

For  longer  years  than  each  could  tell, 
Joined  by 'a  stern  gyve,  wrist  with  wrist, 

Have  roamed  the  courts  of  hell 
Their  blank  eyes  know  each  other  not ; 

Their  cold  hearts  hate  this  union  drear 
Yet  one  poor  ghost  was  Launcelot, 

And  one  was  Guinevere. 


220  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

THE  MEETING. 
I  SAW  in  dreams  a  dim  bleak  heath, 

Where  towered  a  gaunt  pine  by  a  rock, 
And  suddenly,  from  the  earth  beneath, 

That  rent  itself  with  an  angry  shock, 
A  shape  sprang  forth  to  that  wild  place, 

Whose  limbs  by  chains  were  trenched  and  marred 
And  whose  sardonic  pain-worn  face 

Was  grimly  scorched  and  scarred. 

He  waited  by  the  spectral  pine ; 

Aloft  he  lifted  haggard  eyes ; 
A  woman's  form,  of  mien  divine, 

Dropt  earthward  in  seraphic  wise. 
Chaste  as  though  bathed  in  breaking  day 

And  radiant  with  all  saintly  charms, 
She  flew  toward  him  till  she  lay 

Close-locked  in  his  dark  arms  ! 

I  heard  a  far  vague  voice  that  said : 

"  On  earth  these  twain  had  loved  so  well 
That  now  their  lives,  when  both  are  dead, 

Burst  the  great  bounds  of  Heaven  and  Hell. 
Alike  o'er  powers  of  gloom  and  light 

Prevailed  their  fervid  prayers  and  tears ; 
They  meet  on  this  bleak  heath  one  night 

In  every  thousand  years  !  " 


TO  AN  ORIOLE. 

How  falls  it,  oriole,  thou  hast  come  to  fly 

In  tropic  splendour  through  our  Northern  sky  ? 

At  some  glad  moment  was  it  nature's  choice 
To  dower  a  scrap  of  sunset  with  a  voice  ? 

Or  did  some  orange  tulip,  flaked  with  black, 
In  some  forgotten  garden,  ages  back, 

Yearning  toward  heaven  until  its  wish  was  heard 
Desire  unspeakably  to  be  a  bird  1 


EDGA R  FAll 'CE TT.  221 

THE  MOON  IN  THE  CITY. 

PALE  roamer  through  the  purple  hollow  of  night, 
In  all  thy  wanderings  weird,  from  East  to  West, 

What  wonder  thou  dost  gladly  shower  thy  light 
On  many  a  dusky  region  of  earth's  breast  ? 

Wild  tracts  of  cloisteral  forest-land  I  know 
Are  welcome  to  that  luminous  heart  of  thine, 

Where  under  murmurous  branches  thou  canst  throw 
Dim  palpitant  arabesques  of  shade  and  shine  ! 

Smooth  meadows  dying  against  far  opal  skies 
Thou  lovest  with  lonely  splendours  to  illume, 

And  turn  their  bodiless  vapours,  when  they  rise, 
To  phantoms  greatening  in  the  doubtful  gloom. 

The  haughtiest  mountain  happy  dost  thou  feel 
To-mantle  with  thy  radiance,  chastely  soft, 

Like  intercessional  mercy's  meek  appeal 
Where  cold  majestic  justice  towers  aloft ! 

When  deep  in  measureless  peace  he  lulls  his  waves, 
Or  when  their  perilous  masses  proudly  curl, 

Thy  pennon  of  brilliance,  though  he  smiles  or  raves, 
Along  the  varying  sea  dost  thou  unfurl ! 

But  ah  !  though,  forest,  mountain,  meadow  and  sea, 
Shall  each  thy  separate  favour  sweetly  win, 

White  lily  of  heaven,  how  can  it  pleasure  thee 
To  blossom  above  the  city's  ghastly  sin  ! 


DECORATION  DA  Y. 

TO-DAY,  as  the  pulses  powerful 
Of  the  glad  young  year  awake, 

It  would  seem  that  with  tokens  flowerful 
A  nation  had  gone  to  take, 

While  passing  in  throngs  processional 
Over  sweeps  of  mellowed  sod, 

The  sky  for  a  blue  confessional, 
And  to  tell  its  grief  to  God  ! 


222  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

But  more  than  to  march  regretfully 
With  the  earthward-pointing  gun, 

And  more  than  to  merge  forgetfully 
The  Blue  and  the  Gray  in  one, 

Were  to  love,  with  its  sweet  sublimity, 
The  thought  of  an  endless  peace, 

And  to  swear,  in  grand  unanimity, 
That  war  shall  forever  cease  ! 

For  how  is  your  service  beautiful, 
O  mourners  that  meet  to-day, 

If  the  hands  that  are  now  so  dutiful 
Shall  to-morrow  spoil  and  slay  ? 

If  the  hate  that  your  love  is  levelling 
Shall  to-morrow  lift  its  brow, 

And  redden  with  bloody  revelling 
The  graves  that  you  garland  now  ? 

For  only  if  all  humanity 

Could  have  learned  to  well  abhor 

The  imperious  blind  insanity, 
The  iniquitous  waste  of  war, 

Would  the  splendid  and  stainless  purity 

Of  to-day  beam  out  afar, 
Down  the  duskiness  of  futurity, 

As  with  light  of  a  morning  star  ! 

And  then  would  the  blooms  you  shed  upon 
These  numberless  grave-mounds  be 

As  though  the  dews  they  had  fed  upon 
Were  the  waters  of  Galilee 


FIAT  JUSTITIA. 

i. 

THEY  tell  her  he  is  dead  ;  and  when  she  hears 

Right  instantly  she  fears 
Lest  they  shall  wonder  that  she  sheds  no  tears 


EDGAR  FA  WCETT.  223 

"Poor  widowed  one,"  they  whisper,  for  they  see 

Her  sorrowing  mien  ;  but  she 
Makes  passionate  inward  murmur  :  "  I  am  free  ! " 

n. 
She  hears  that  he  is  dead  :  and  when  she  hears, 

Leap  the  hot  heavy  tears 
To  eyes  that  have  not  wept  for  years  and  years 

And  lo,  she  has  forgiven  him  all  the  shame 

He  wrought  upon  her  name, 
So  blackening  it  with  soilure  of  black  blame. 

Then  to  his  home  she  hurries,  yearning  sore 

To  look  on  him  once  more  ;  .  .   . 
But  friends,  in  awful  virtue,  guard  the  door. 


GOLD. 

No  spirit  of  air  am  I,  but  one  whose  birth 
Was  deep  in  mouldy  darkness  of  mid-earth. 

Yet  where  my  yellow  raiments  choose  to  shine, 
What  power  is  more  magnificent  than  mine  ? 

In  hall  or  hut,  in  highway  or  in  street, 
Obedient  millions  grovel  at  my  feet. 

The  loftiest  pride  to  me  its  tribute  brings; 
I  gain  the  lowly  vassalage  of  kings ! 

How  many  a  time  have  I  made  honour  yield 
To  me  its  mighty  and  immaculate  shield  ? 

How  often  has  virtue,  at  my  potent  name, 
Robed  her  chaste  majesty  in  scarlet  shame? 

How  often  has  burning  love,  within  some  breast 
Frozen  to  treachery  at  my  cold  behest  1 

Yet  ceaselessly  my  triumph  has  been  blent 
With  pangs  of  overmastering  discontent  ? 


224  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  always  there  are  certain  souls  that  hear 
My  stealthy  whispers  with  indifferent  ear. 

Pure  souls  that  deem  my  smile's  most  bland  excess, 
For  all  its  lavish  radiance,  valueless  ! 

Rare  souls,  from  my  imperious  guidance  free, 
"Who  know  me  for  the  slave  that  I  should  be ! 

Grand  souls,  that  from  my  counsels  would  dissent, 
Though  each  were  tempted  with  a  continent ! 


STILL   WATER. 

HE  wrote  and  wrote,  but  could  not  make  a  name ; 
Then  cursed  his  fate  and  called  the  world  to  blame ; 
The  world  that  knew  not  genius  when  it  came ; 

"  The  world,  "  he  cried,  "that  crowns  us  in  a  night 
For  nothing ;  but  that  damns  us,  wrong  or  right, 
Rather  from  sheer  indifference  than  from  spite." 

One  of  his  friends  would  slyly  smile  to  hear ; 

"  Ah  !  second-hand  Byronics  !  "     One  would  sneer  ; 

One  said  "  Give  over;"  one  said  "Persevere  !" 

One  said  but  little,  though  she  thought  and  thought, 
Through  the  long  weeks  and  all  the  work  they  brought, 
While  the  wife  toiled  and  while  the  mother  taught. 

There  went  a  story  that  he  might  have  wed 
An  heiress,  this  poor  scribbler  for  his  bread, 
But  took  a  little  meek-eyed  girl  instead, 

A  little  meek-eyed  girl  without  a  cent, 

Who  scarcely  knew  what  half  his  writings  meant, 

Loved  him  reveringly,  and  was  content. 

And  now  her  spirit  mused  upon  a  way 
To  brighten  his  dull  face  again.      One  day 
Her  slender  hand  along  his  shoulder  lay. 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  225 

"  Write  this."  .   .  .  And  then  she  told  him  what  to  write, 
In  just  a  few  fleet  words,  and  stole  from  sight, 
With  smiling  lips  but  with  a  look  of  fright. 

He  laughed,  at  first ;  yet  in  a  little  space 
The  languid  laughter  died  from  out  his  face 
And  left  mute  meditation  in  its  place  .  .   . 

If  I  mistake  not,  it  was  this  same  year 
That  suddenly  men  knew  him,  far  and  neai', 
As  having  won  the  world's  capricious  ear. 

And  she  ?     Why,  if  she  had  not  seen  so  plain 
How  soon  the  laurels  cured  his  longing  pain, 
She  might  have  held  them  even  in  mild  disdain. 

But  now  she  blesses  fortune's  kind  decree, — 

Proud,  glad,  through  him  ! — though  still,  for  all  we  see, 

The  same  small  meek-eyed  wife  she  used  to  be. 


MASTER  AND  SLAVE. 

ON  his  rotting  old  throne  sat  Death,  in  a  cave  where  the 

black  dews  fell. 
Near    by   stood    his   beautiful    awful    slave,    the    angel 

Azrael. 

"  Have  you  served  me  true,"  said  Death  "in  your  work 

of  tears  to-day  1 " 
And  Azrael  answered,  "  Live  the  King  !     I  hearken  and 

I  obey. 

"A  bride  on  her  bridal  morn;  a  lover  that  dreamed  of 

bliss ; 
A  child,  last-left   in  a  widow's  home, — these   stiffened 

beneath  my  kiss. 

"  These  and  the  numberless  more  :  yea,  Master,  my  work 

of  tears 
To-day  has  sped  as  in  other  days,  for  years,  for  years 

and  for  years." 

Death  smiled  with  his  dark  sad  mouth,  with  his  hard 
grave  passionless  eye. 

p 


226  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"And  what  of  the  souls  that  sought  your  kiss?     Did 
you  pass  these  proudly  by  ? 

"When  the  mourners   moaned  your  name  with  their 

longing  lips  and  wan, 
When  a  wild  hand  signalled  you  to  pause,  did  you  then 

pass  proudly  on  \ " 

And  the  angel  Azrael  said,  in  lowly  and  loyal  way, 
"  Even  so,  dark  Master.     Live  the  King  !  I  hearken  and 
I  obey." 


THE  SORCERESS. 

ESMEH,  the  favourite  wife  of  Shah-Zarar, 

Ruled  her  great  lord,  at  Ispahan,  by  love. 

The  gardens  of  her  palace,  jasper-walled, 

Hung  towering,  with  their  bloom ful  terraces, 

O'er  lands  whose  proud  sweep,  while  she  gazed  on  them, 

Made  her  thrice  queen.     No  rival  shared  her  home, 

Where  lengths  of  gallery,  each  like  some  new  dawn 

For  brilliance,  linked  their  luxuries  of  pomp. 

Her  eunuchs  blazed  with  gems ;  her  dancing-girls, 

Daughters  of  Egypt,  swarthy  as  its  wastes, 

Daughters  of  Greece,  white  as  its  temples  are, 

Daughters  of  Syria,  lissome  as  its  palms, 

Daughters  of  India,  mystic  as  its  gods, 

Daughters  of  Nubia,  black  and  eyed  with  fire, 

All  chosen  as  flowers  of  grace  among  their  kind, 

Flattered  by  measures  wove  with  fantasy 

The  languors  of  her  couch  at  noon  or  eve. 

That  poet  allowed  sweet  chief  in  all  the  realm. 

Whom  Saadi  and  Hafz  would  have  crowned  to-day, 

Whose  verse  dense  marts  would  swarm  from  booths  to  list, 

Sang  for  her  sole  delight  his  lays  of  power. 

Georgian  had  been  her  birth,  of  royal  kin  ; 

Her  beauty,  a  marvel  ere  the  child  grew  ruaid. 

Was  borne  on  breeze  of  rumour  to  the  BLing ; 

Who,  when  he  heard  the  story  of  it,  grew  wroth, 

And  saying,  "  I  weary  of  these  rosy  lies 


EDGAR  FA  WCETT.  227 

That  greed  of  place  coins  tiiick  to  tempt  my  note, — 
By  Allah,  I  laugh  at  this  one,"  clad  the  theme 
In  fear  that  struck  his  boldest  courtier  mute. 

Still  months  being  flown,  his  Vizier  dared,  one  day, 

To  set  the  girl  among  a  timorous  group 

Of  new-bought  slaves ;  and  when  the  veils  were  drawn. 

From  various  faces,  and  Esmeh's  looked  forth, 

Winsome,  unparalleled  for  virgin  bloom, 

The  King  half  doubtful  if  'twere  ghost  or  flesh 

He  gazed  on,  cried  with  awe,  "What  maid  is  this?" 

Then,  learning  her  true  lineage,  from  his  robe 

He  loosed  a  diamond  of  great  price,  and  sunk 

Its  glory  amid  her  dusk  of  hair,  and  bade 

The  ceremonial  of  their  spousals  haste, 

And  clear  through  seven  fond  years,  from  then  till  now, 

Clave  to  his  "new  choice  with  unfaltering  love. 

Broad  were  the  lands  by  Shah-Zarar's  dead  sires 

Bequeathed  him,  justly  governed,  knit  with  ties 

Of  fealty,  and  on  every  still  frontier, 

From  Smyrna  to  the  Indus,  freed  of  war. 

Such  peace  had  fallen  his  people  that  the  King, 

Joyed  at  their  thrift  and  bounty,  might  have  paid 

In  gloomier  hours  but  momentary  heed 

To  tidings  that  now  vexed  his  mood  with  spleen. 

For  now  a  certain  sorceress,  witch  or  sprite, 

Named  Dara,  but  whose  actual  race  none  knew, 

Had  wrought,  in  near  or  distant  towns,  'twas  told, 

Black  spells  on  caliph,  pasha,  prince,  emir, 

By  tricks  of  dance,  till  some  went  mad  for  love 

And  others  died  of  it  as  from  a  plague. 

Yet  none  could  snare  the  beauteous  woman-curse 

Who  boldly  pushed  her  presence  where  she  willed, 

Melting,  if  seized,  in  fumes  of  lurid  smoke 

That  stung  her  captor's  hands  to  leave  them  void. 

In  each  new  city  it  was  her  whim  to  choose, 

Promptly  this  Dara  would  claim  courtesy 

Of  him  who  reigned  there.      Such  demand  refused 

She  passed  in  scorn  beyond  the  gates  once  more, 


228  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Crying  out,  "  I  am  but  woman,  yet  your  chief 

Has  fear  lest  Dara  should  unveil  her  face 

And  dance  before  him  !     Valiant  is  your  chief, 

By  Allah  and  all  the  prophets  !     May  he  meet 

His  foes  with  equal  nerve,  should  need  arise  ! 

Nor  let  him  brand  me  sorceress,  for  such  plea 

Will  help  him  ill ;  I  am  leagued  with  no  dark  imps; 

I  am  woman,  only  woman,  though  my  shield 

From  violence  be  a  gift  of  magic  source. 

Who  fears  me  fears  himself;  who  meets  me  fair 

And  falls,  hath  fallen  alone  by  his  own  lack 

Of  temperance,  wisdom,  bravery,  chastity, 

And  all  that  should  in  men  mean  manlihood  .... 

Go  tell  your  chief  how  Dara  scorns  him  !     Go  ! " 

Herewith  her  form,  close-vestured  in  its  veil, 

Would  speed  from  sight,  and  what  she  had  hurled  in  scoff, 

With  all  the  subtlety  of  challenge  there, 

Retold  to  grandees  who  had  flouted  her, 

Bred  ire  and  shame,  till  heads  of  other  towns, 

Eager  to  prove  their  strength  against  her  lures, 

Flung  back  the  doors  of  palaces  to  greet 

Her  coming ;  but  the  witchery  of  her  dance 

Would  follow,  and  death  or  madness  be  its  price. 

Girt  by  the  surety  of  his  peerless  love, 

Such  tales  in  Shah-Zarar  could  wake  alone 

Contempt  for  those  whom  Dara's  blights  had  harmed. 

And  when  at  last  he  learned  that  she  had  fared 

In  calm  audacity  to  Ispahan, 

Soliciting  his  own  imperial  heed, 

"  Throw  wide  the  gates,"  he  ordered.     "  Bid  her  seek 

Our  audience-hall  to-morrow.     Lodge  her  well, 

And  charge  her  that  she  use,  to  trap  our  sense, 

Her  most  voluptuous  deviltries  of  dance. 

We  mean  to  test  her  necromancies  all, 

And  tax  their  baleful  cunning  till  it  wane. 

We  never  yet  felt  thrall  to  woman  born, 

Save  one,  the  loveliest,  purest  now  on  earth. 

Let  this  deft  jade,  who  boasts  that  she  can  play 


EDGAR  FA  WCETT.  229 

On  what  is  beast  in  man  till  man  turn  beast, 
Feel  her  own  boast  grow  ashes  on  her  lips ! 
To-morrow  at  noon  we  wait  her.     We  have  said." 

Ere  yet  the  slaves  had  lit  the  scented  lamps 

Between  the  porphyry  columns  looming  dark 

Where  dim  pavilions  died  in  flowery  courts, 

That  evening,  while  the  west  was  one  sad  rose 

Pierced  with  one  lambent  star,  the  enamoured  King 

Sat  with  Estneh,  and  told  her  of  his  plan  ; 

And  she,  remembering  all  the  vaunted  spells 

Of  Dara,  this  famed  sorceress,  wound  both  arms, 

White  bonds  of  passion,  round  her  lord,  and  prayed 

Retraction  of  his  perilous  resolve. 

While  so  she  prayed,  the  rich  night  of  her  eyes 

Burned  on  his  own,  and  beamed  through  tears  unshed 

Entreaty  and  pathos.     "  O  my  lord  and  love," 

She  pleaded,  "  who  that  lives  will  ever  hold 

Thy  greatness  at  a  loftier  worth  than  I  ? 

Yet  even  a  king  like  Shah-Zarar  is  man, 

And  she,  this  temptress,  may  in  frailty  store 

Bane  fit  for  demons,  like  some  thread  of  snake 

That  scarce  will  stir  the  ferns  wherefrom  it  slides, 

Yet  fells  the  unheeding  lion  !     O  my  liege, 

Seek  thou  not  proof  that  heights  of  good  are  thine 

Beyond  her  deeps  of  ill,  for  this  all  know  ; 

But  shouldst  thou  match  thy  strength  with  hers,  'twill  be 

The  valour  of  virtue  hurling  honest  blows 

At  slippery  guile  that  fights  by  craft  alone  ! " 

Listening,  the  King  looked  pity  allied  with  love, 
And  answered  :   "  O  Esmeh,  my  dew-bathed  rose, 
Truly  thou  wouldst  not  make  me  jeer  for  slaves  ! 
I  have  sworn  to  front  this  pest  until  it  shrink 
In  swoon  of  impotence  from  what  its  fangs 
Would  maim  and  slay.     My  sanctity  of  oath 
Must  bide  inviolate,  though  the  prayer  you  prayed 
Were  wistfuller  than  yonder  twilight  star 
That  drops  reluctant  from  the  damask  west. 
Ask  all  my  turquoise-quarries ;  bid  me  drape 


230  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Your  doors  with  rarer  broideries  from  Cashmere, 

Carpet  your  bath-brinks  with  new  tiger-skins 

Fresh  from  Mazanderan,  fetch  choicer  furs 

To  glad  you  from  chill  slopes  of  Astrakhan, 

From  Turkestan  bring  gaudier  tapestries, 

Hang  in  your  ears  more  pearls  from  hot  Ceylon-  — 

But  seek  not  to  assuage  in  me  the  zeal 

For  this  my  task  of  high  example,  shown 

Through  reign  of  spirit  above  debasing  clay. 

For  if  I  fail,  toward  whom  all  eyes  are  turned 

As  light  of  guidance,  wherefore  should  I  hope 

Those  multitudes  of  lives  that  hail  me  head 

Would  find  not  in  my  ignominy  excuse 

For  thrice  ten  thousand  sins  more  gross  than  mine  ?  .   .   . 

But  O  my  heaven  of  womanhood  made  earth, 

My  sweet  idolatry,  my  Esmeh,  rest  sure 

That  Allah,  who  in  thee  forestalls  my  bliss 

Of  Paradise  hereafter,  will  not  soil 

A  love  as  holy  as  ours  with  stain  so  foul, 

Nor  let  my  soul,  for  even  a  transient  hour, 

Swerve  from  its  deathless  constancy  to  thine  !  " 

So  the  King  spoke ;  and  Esmeh  bowed  her  head, 

Weeping.  .  .  .   But  on  the  morrow  Dara  danced 

In  the  great  hall  where  Shah-Zarar  sat  throned. 

Meek  was  her  mien  as  quite  unveiled  she  came 

In  presence  of  the  mighty  Persian  King. 

Her  garb,  of  some  diaphanous  fabric,  clung 

Mist-like  about  her  stature,  telling  all 

Its  willowy  delicacy  ;  her  gold  hair 

Showed  in  bright  leash  how  plenteous  were  its  coils, 

Wrapping  her  small  drooped  head  ;  both  arms  were  nude, 

But  laces  lay  thick-plied  on  loins  and  breast. 

No  jewel  or  trace  of  ornament  she  wore, 

And  while  toward  Shah-Zarar  she  slowly  moved, 

"A  hundred  fairer  faces  pine  unkissed," 

He  thought,  "  in  that  seraglio  whose  long  floors 

For  seven  sweet  years  my  foot  hath  never  paced  !  " 

Then  Dara,  pausing  midway  of  the  hall, 

Flung  from  her  supple  throat  a  film  of  scarf 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  231 

That  seemed  to  melt  in  vapour,  and  now  at  once, 
With  no  least  hint  of  prelude,  softly  danced. 

Gentle  of  movement,  while  she  thus  began, 
But  full  of  pliant  rhythm  and  somnolence, 
Her  body  iu  ordered  action  bowed  and  swayed. 
Harmonious  was  the  sequence  of  her  steps, 
Each  gesture  fraught  with  dexterous  elegance, 
Each  posture  clothed  in  dignity  and  ease. 

"  Apt,"  thought  the  King,  with  all  a  critic's  phlegm  ; 

"Yet  many  a  girl  in  Ispahan  may  match 

Thus  far  the  scope  of  her  accomplishment. 

A  sure  precision  in  her  equipoise 

Offends  like  vanity  ;  were  it  faultier, 

With  some  appeal  in  it  for  leniency, 

Less  coldly  perfect  and  deliberate, 

Less  wrought  by  codes  of  schools,  its  power  were  more."  .  .  . 

But  Dara  had  not  ended  yet  her  dance, — 
Nay,  scarce  had  she  begun  its  wizardries- 
Arid  soon  her  motions,  quickening,  lost  all  look 
Of  study  or  plan,  but  seemed  alone  to  breathe 
A  spirit  of  candid  impulse,  fervid  truth. 
Music,  as  though  of  breezes  rustling  leaves, 
Or  tinkle  of  waters  through  a  mossy  gorge, 
Or  rustle  of  dreamy  seas  on  elfin  sands, 
Woke  round  her,  following  where  she  leapt  or  crouched, 
Exulted  or  desponded,  fired  or  mused. 
Her  hair,  as  if  unbound  by  viewless  hands, 
Dilated,  fluttering  like  a  golden  flame, 
And  suiting  each  new  bend  of  her  white  arms. 
The  gnuzes  at  her  bosom,  drifting  back, 
Had  bared  its  curves  of  snow,  unseen  till  now. 
Her  eyes  had  grown  a  splendour,  mild  yet  keen  ; 
New  lineaments  and  meanings  filled  her  face, 
And  tremulous  at  the  verges  of  her  lips 
Faded  or  flashed  her  rich  mesmeric  smile. 

Forward  with  flushing  cheek,  leaned  Shah-Zazar, 
The  spell  had  fallen  upon  him  ere  he  knew. 


232  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

No  wreath  of  haze,  from  bastions  of  great  hills 

Blown  to  fantastic  shape  by  summer  wind, 

Drifts  with  an  airier  buoyancy  than  now 

The  form  of  Dara  seemed  to  glide  and  swim. 

Her  dance,  through  some  untold  resource  of  art 

Miraculous,  or  sorcery  still  more  strange, 

Had  grown  the  incarnate  history  of  love, 

Its  joys,  regrets,  hopes,  yearnings,  fears,  despairs  .  .  . 

In  turn  all  lived,  throbbed,  shuddered  where  she  swept — 

Here  ardent  and  there  languorous,  here  alert 

With  blissful  torture,  there  forlorn  with  doubt. 

The  agony,  the  expectancy,  the  pang 

Of  disappointment,  the  brief  meagre  cheer 

Of  consolation, — every  phase  of  love 

Spoke  in  her  sinuous  change  and  counterchange  .  .   . 

Then  victory  wed  with  ecstasy  at  last 

Rose  rapturous  after  suffering.  .   .  .  Now  her  glance 

Was  blithe  delirium,  her  ethereal  arms 

Intoxication,  her  swift-panting  mouth 

Enticement,  her  unfathomable  smile 

The  di-owsy  mystery  of  all  love's  delight ! 

"  Allah  protect  me  !  "  murmured  the  great  King  .   .  . 
He  rose,  to  fly  the  hall,  then  backward  sank  .  .   . 
Too  late  he  rose ;  the  spell  had  mastered  him. 

Wild-eyed  he  gazed  on  Dara  where  she  danced ; 
He  stretched  both  arms  out  while  she  nearer  drew  • 
His  breath  came  hard ;   all  thought  of  realm  or  name 
Had  perished  from  his  mind  or  conscience  ;  floods 
Of  weird  fleet  mist  were  hurrying  through  the  hall, 
And  in  their  flexuous  volume  he  descried 
Nothing  save  Dara,  beautiful  past  thought — 
An  houri,  a  devil,  he  was  careless  which — 
Radiant  amid  these  folds  of  rushing  cloud. 

Nearer  she  drew,  the  enchantress,  nearer  yet, 

Still  weaving  the  wild  wonders  of  her  dance.  .  .  . 

"  Great  King,"  she  whispered,  "  grant  thy  slave  a  boon." 

Then  Dara  laughed   a  low  melodious  laugh, 

And  whispered,  "  Thou  will  grant  it  not,  I  know  !  " 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  233 

Staggering,  the  King  had  risen,  "  Whate'er  it  be, 
'Tis  thine.     By  Mahomet  I  swear  'tis  thine  !  " 

Then  Dara  laughed  once  more  ;  her  eyes  were  homes 
Of  luminous  promise,  and  her  lifted  face 
Beamed  ravishment  from  symmetries  unguessed 
Till  now.   .  .  .   "  /  ask  the  head  of  thine  Esmeth  !  " 

Between  her  words  thus  given,  and  what  next  fell, 
It  seemed  to  Shah-Zarar  one  moment's  flash.  .  .    . 
Later,  vague  memories  thrilled  him  that  he  spoke 
With  harsh  command,  while  hearing  as  in  dream 
Warnings  from  minions  born  but  to  obey, 
And  that  in  wrath  he  towered  insistently 
Till  seized  by  fright  men  fled  to  work  his  hest, 
However  terrible,  and  that  Dara  danced 
More  near  his  throne's  foot,  and  he  stooped  to  her, 
Infatuate,  pleading  she  would  share  his  power, 
And  rule,  his  Dara,  Queen  as  he  was  King. 

Then  suddenly  the  wan  mists  fled  and  made 

The  audience-hall  as  ever  it  had  been, 

Save  that  a  eunuch  cowered  before  his  throne, 

Bearing  a  head  whose  neck  yet  dripped  with  blood, — 

Esmeh's  !     And  now  crying  out  with  grief, 

The  wild  King  burst  the  trammels  of  his  trance ; 

And  as  he  wakened,  echoing  his  mad  wail, 

The  sorceress  vanished  with  a  shriek  of  hate, 

To  leave  him  glaring  at  her  ghastly  work. 

Many  the  silent  centuries  ago 

Since  fell  this  deed  of  shadowy  tragedy; 

But  night  winds  breathe  it  yet  o'er  glades  and  dells 

Of  Persian  hills ;  and  moonlit  streams  that  pour 

From  Demavend's  high  snows  yet  murrnur  it; 

And  Caspian  billows  mourn  it  as  they  break ; 

Or  southward,  where  Persepolis  rears  pale 

Her  marble  memories  of  dead  state,  the  stars 

Robe  in  their  melancholy  of  eloquence, 

Whose  voice  is  light,  the  anguish  of  the  tale. 


234  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


A  STRAGGLER. 

I  LEFT  the  throng  whose  laughter  made 
That  wide  old  woodland  echo  clear, 

While  forth  they  spread,  in  breezy  shade, 
Their  plethoric  hamperfuls  of  cheer. 

Along  a  dark  moss-misted  plank 
My  way  in  dreamy  mood  I  took, 

And  crossed,  from  balmy  bank  to  bank, 
The  impetuous  silver  of  the  brook. 

And  wandering  on,  at  last  I  found 
A  shadowy  tranquil  gladelike  place, 

Full  of  mellifluous  leafy  sound, 

While  midmost  of  its  grassy  space 

A  lump  of  rugged  granite  gleamed, 
A  tawny-lichened  ledge  of  grey, 

And  up  among  the  boughs  there  beamed 
One  blue  delicious  glimpse  of  day  ! 

In  fitful  faintness  on  my  ear 

The  picnic's  lightsome  laughter  fell, 

And  softly,  while  I  lingered  here, 
Sweet  fancy  bound  me  with  a  spell ! 

In  some  bland  clime  across  the  seas 
Those  merry  tones  I  seem  to  mark, 

While  dame  and  gallant  roamed  at  ease 
The  pathways  of  some  stately  park. 

And  in  that  glimpse  of  amethyst  air 
I  seemed  to  watch,  with  musing  eye, 

The  rich  blue  fragment,  fresh  and  fair, 
Of  some  dead  summer's  morning  sky  ! 

And  that  rough  mass  of  granite,  too, 
From  graceless  outlines  gently  waned, 

And  took  the  sculptured  shape  and, hue 
Of  dull  old  marble,  deeply  stained. 


EDGAR  FAWCETT.  235 

And  then  (most  beauteous  change  of  all ! ) 
Strewn  o'er  its  mottled  slab  lay  low 

A  glove,  a  lute,  a  silken  shawl, 
A  vellum-bound  Boccaccio ! 


IVY. 

ILL  canst  thou  bide  in  alien  lands  like  these, 

Whose  home  lies  over  seas, 
Among  manorial  halls,  parks  wide  and  fair, 

Churches  antique,  and  where 
Long  hedges  flower  in  May,  and  one  can  hark 
To  carollings  from  old  England's  lovely  lark  ! 

Ill  canst  thou  bide  where  memories  are  so  brief, 

Thou  that  hast  bathed  thy  leaf 
Deep  in  the  shadowy  past,  and  known  strange  things 

Of  crumbled  queens  and  kings  ; 
Thou  whose  dead  kindred,  in  years  half  forgot, 
Robed  the  grey  battlements  of  proud  Camelot ! 

Through  all  thy  fibre's  intricate  expanse 

Hast  thou  breathed  sweet  romance  ; 

Ladies  that  long  are  dust  thou  hast  beheld 
Through  dreamy  days  of  eld  ; 

Watched  in  broad  castle-courts  the  merry  light 

Bathe  gaudy  banneret  and  resplendent  knight. 

And  thou  hast  seen,  on  ancient  lordly  lawns, 

The  timorous  dappled  fawns  ; 
Heard  pensive  pages  with  their  suave  lutes  play 

Some  low  Provencal  lay  ; 

Marked  beauteous  dames  through  arrased  chambers  glide, 
With  lazy  and  graceful  stag-hounds  at  their  side. 

And  thou  hast  gazed  on  splendid  cavalcades 

Of  nobles,  matrons,  maids, 
Winding  from  castle  gates  on  breezy  morns, 

With  golden  peals  of  horns, 
In  velvet  and  brocade,  in  plumes  and  silk, 
With  falcons,  and  with  palfreys  white  as  milk. 


236  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Through  convent-casements  thou  hast  peered,  and  there 

Viewed  the  meek  nun  at  prayer ; 
Seen,  through  rich  panes  dyed  purple,  gold  and  rose, 

Monks  read  old  folios  ; 

On  abbey-walls  heard  wild  laughs  thrill  thy  vine 
When  the  fat  tonsured  priests  quaffed  ruby  wine. 

O  ivy,  having  lived  in  times  like  these, 

Here  art  thou  ill  at  ease  ; 
For  thou  art  one  with  ages  passed  away, 

We  are  of  yesterday ; 
Short  retrospect,  slight  ancestry  is  ours, 
But  thy  dark  leaves  clothes  history's  haughty  towers ! 


JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE. 

[Born  in  Queen's  County,  Ireland,  31st  May  1847.  Author  of 
Songs  and  Satires  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1887), 
from  which  volume  the  four  last  poems  are  taken  by  special 
permission.] 

SIR  HUGO'S  CHOICE. 

IT  is  better  to  die,  since  death  comes  surely, 
In  the  full  noontide  of  an  honoured  name, 

Than  to  lie  at  the  end  of  years  obscurely, 
A  handful  of  dust  in  a  shroud  of  shame. 


Sir  Hugo  lived  in  the  ages  golden, 

Warder  of  Aisne  and  Picardy; 
He  lived  and  died,  and  his  deeds  are  told  in 

The  Book  immortal  of  Chivalrie  : 

How  he  won  the  love  of  a  prince's  daughter — 
A  poor  knight  he  with  a  stainless  sword — 

Whereat  Count  Rolf,  who  had  vainly  sought  her, 
Swore  death  should  sit  at  the  bridal  board. 

"A  braggart's  threat,  for  a  brave  man's  scorning  ! 

And  Hugo  laughed  at  his  rival's  ire, 
But  couriers  twain,  on  the  bridal  morning, 

To  his  castle  gate  came  with  tidings  dire. 


JA MRS  JEFFRE  Y  ROCHE.  237 

The  first  a-faint  and  with  armour  riven : 
"  In  peril  sore  have  I  left  thy  bride, — 

False  Rolf  waylaid  us.     For  love  and  Heaven  ! 
Sir  Hugo,  quick  to  the  rescue  ride  !  " 

Stout  Hugo  muttered  a  word  unholy; 

He  sprang  to  horse  and  he  flashed  his  brand, 
But  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  bridle  slowly, 

And  a  herald  spoke  :   "  By  the  king's  command, 

'•  This  to  Picardy's  trusty  warder  : — 

France  calls  first  for  his  loyal  sword, 
The  Flemish  spears  are  across  the  border, 

And  all  is  lost  if  they  win  the  ford." 

Sir  Hugo  paused,  and  his  face  was  ashen, 
His  white  lips  trembled  in  silent  prayer — 

God's  pity  soften  the  spirit's  passion 
When  the  crucifixion  of  Love  is  there ! 

What  need  to  tell  of  the  message  spoken  ? 

Of  the  hand  that  shook  as  he  poised  his  lance  ? 
And  the  look  that  told  of  his  brave  heart  broken, 

As  he  bade  them  follow,  "For  God  and  France!" 

On  Cambray's  field  next  morn  they  found  him, 
'Mid  a  mighty  swatli  of  foemen  dead ; 

Her  snow-white  scarf  he  had  bound  around  him 
With  his  loyal  blood  was  baptised  red. 

It  is  all  writ  down  in  the  book  of  glory, 
On  crimson  pages  of  blood  and  strife, 

With  scanty  thought  for  the  simple  story 
Of  duty  dearer  than  love  or  life. 

Only  a  note  obscure,  appended 

By  warrior  scribe  or  monk  perchance, 

Saith :   "  The  good  knight's  ladye  was  sore  offended 
That  he  would  not  die  for  her  but  France." 

Did  the  ladye  live  to  lament  her  lover1? 

Or  did  roystering  Rolf  prove  a  better  mate  1 
I  have  searched  the  records  over  and  over, 

But  nought  discover  to  tell  her  fate. 


238  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  I  read  the  moral — A  brave  endeavour 
To  do  thy  duty,  whate'er  its  worth, 

Is  better  than  life  with  love  for  ever — 
And  love  is  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth. 


THE   V-A-S-E. 

FROM  the  madding  crowd  they  stand  apart, 
The  maidens  four  and  the  Work  of  Art ; 

And  none  might  tell  from  sight  alone — 
In  which  had  Culture  ripest  grown, — 

The  Gotham  Million  fair  to  see, 
The  Philadelphia  Pedigree, 

The  Boston  Mind  of  azure  hue, 

Or  the  soulful  Soul  from  Kalamazoo, — 

For  all  loved  Art  in  a  seemly  way, 
With  an  earnest  soul  and  a  capital  A. 

Long  they  worshipped ;  but  no  one  broke 
The  sacred  stillness,  until  up  spoke 

The  Western  one  from  the  nameless  place, 
Who  blushing  said  :   "  What  a  lovely  vace  !  " 

Over  three  faces  a  sad  smile  flew, 
And  they  edged  away  from  Kalamazoo. 

But  Gotham's  haughty  soul  was  stirred 
To  crush  the  stranger  with  one  small  word  : 

Deftly  hiding  reproof  in  praise, 

She  cries  :  "  'Tis,  indeed,  a  lovely  vaze  ! " 

But  brief  her  unworthy  triumph  when 
The  lofty  one  from  the  home  of  Peun> 

With  the  consciousness  of  two  grandpapas, 
Exclaims  :  "  It  is  quite  a  lovely  vahs  !  " 


JAMES  JEFFRE  Y  ROCHE.  239 

And  glances  round  with  an  anxious  thrill, 
Awaiting  the  word  of  Beacon  Hill. 

But  the  Boston  maid  smiles  courteouslee, 
And  gently  murmurs  :   "  Oh,  pardon  me  ! 

"  I  did  not  catch  your  remark,  because 

I  was  so  entranced  with  that  charming  vaws ! " 

Dies  erit  prmgelida. 
Sinistra  quuni  Bostonia. 


ANDXOMEDA. 

THEY  chained  her  fair  young  body  to  the  cold  and  cruel 

stone ; 
The  beast  begot  of  sea  and  slime  had  marked  her  for  his 

own ; 
The  callous  world  beheld  the  wrong,  and  lefb  her  there 

alone. 

Base  caitiffs  who  belied  her,  false  kinsmen  who  denied  her, 
Ye  left  her  there  alone  ! 

My   Beautiful,    they   left    thee   in    thy    peril    and    thy 

pain ; 
The  night  that  hath   no  morrow  was  brooding  on  the 

main  : 

But  lo  !  a  light  is  breaking  of  hope  for  thee  again ; 
'Tis  Perseus'  sword  a-flaming,  thy  dawn  of  day  proclaiming 

Across  the  western  main. 
O  Ireland  !  0  my  country  !  he  comes  to  break  thy  chain  ! 


BAB  YLON. 

HER  robes  are  of  purple  and  scarlet, 
And  the  kings  have  bent  their  knees 

To  the  gemmed  and  jewelled  harlot 
Who  sitteth  on  many  seas. 


240  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

They  have  drunk  the  abominations 
Of  her  golden  cup  of  shame  ; 

She  has  drugged  and  debauched  the  nations 
With  the  mystery  of  her  name. 

Her  merchants  have  gathered  riches 
By  the  power  of  her  wantonness, 

And  her  usurers  are  as  leeches 
On  the  world's  supreme  distress. 

She  has  scoured  the  seas  as  a  spoiler ; 

Her  mart  is  a  robbers'  den, 
With  the  wrested  toil  of  the  toiler, 

And  the  mortgaged  souls  of  men. 

Her  crimson  flag  is  flying, 

Where  the  East  and  the  West  are  one ; 
Her  drums  while  the  day  is  dying 

Salute  the  rising  sun. 

She  has  scourged  the  weak  and  the  lowly 
And  the  just  with  an  iron  rod  ; 

She  is  drunk  with  the  blood  of  the  holy, — 
She  shall  drink  of  the  wrath  of  God  ! 


WALTER  LEARNED. 

[Born  at  New  London,  Connecticut,  22d  June  1847.  Author  of 
Between  Times  (New  York,  F.  A.  Stokes  &  Co.,  1890),  with 
whose  permission  the  poems  quoted  are  given.] 

ON  THE  FL  Y-LEAF  OF  A  BOOK  OF 
OLD  PL  A  YS. 

AT  Cato's  Head  in  Russell  Street 
These  leaves  she  sat  a-stitching  ; 

I  fancy  she  was  trim  and  neat, 
Blue-eyed  and  quite  bewitching. 

Before  her  in  the  street  below, 

All  powder,  ruffs,  and  laces, 
There  strutted  idle  London  beaux 

To  ogle  pretty  faces ; 


IV ALTER  LEARNED.  241 

While,  filling  many  a  Sedan  chair 
With  hoop  and  monstrous  feather, 

In  patch  and  powder  London's  fair 
Went  trooping  past  together. 

Swift,  Addison,  and  Pope,  mayhap 

They  sauntered  slowly  past  her, 
Or  printer's  boy,  with  gown  and  cap 

For  Steele,  went  trotting  faster. 

For  beau  nor  wit  had  she  a  look, 

Nor  lord  nor  lady  minding ; 
She  bent  her  head  above  this  book, 

Attentive  to  her  binding. 

And  one  stray  thread  of  golden  hair, 

Caught  on  her  nimble  fingers, 
Was  stitched  within  this  volume,  where 

Until  to-day  it  lingers. 

Past  and  forgotten,  beaux  and  fair ; 

WTigs,  powder,  all  out-dated  ; 
A  queer  antique,  the  Sedan  chair ; 

Pope,  stiff  and  antiquated. 

Yet  as  I^turn  these  odd  old  plays, 

This  single  stray  lock  finding, 
I'm  back  in  those  forgotten  days, 

And  watch  her  at  her  binding. 


MARJORIES  KISSES. 

MARJOBIE  laughs  and  climbs  on  my  knee, 
And  I  kiss  her  and  she  kisses  me, 
I  kiss  her,  but  I  don't  much  care, 
Because,  although  she  is  charming  and  fair 
Marjorie's  only  three. 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  I  ween, 
When,  if  I  tell  her  of  this  little  scene, 
She  will  smile  and  prettily  blush,  and  then 
I  shall  long  in  vain  to  kiss  her  again, 
When  Marjorie's  seventeen, 
9 


242  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

THE  PRIME  OF  LIFE. 

JUST  as  I  thought  I  was  growing  old, 
Ready  to  sit  in  ray  easy  chair, 

To  watch  the  world  with  a  heart  grown  cold, 
And  smile  at  a  folly  I  would  not  share, 

Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 
And  I  am  thinking  that  forty  year 

Isn't  the  age  that  it  seems  to  be, 

When  two  pretty  brown  eyes  are  near. 

Bless  me  !  of  life  it  is  just  the  prime, 
A  fact  that  I  hope  she  will  understand  ; 

And  forty  year  is  a  perfect  rhyme 

To  dark  brown  eyes  and  a  pretty  hand. 

These  grey  hairs  are  by  chance,  you  see — 
Boys  are  sometimes  grey,  I  am  told  : 

Rose  came  by  with  a  smile  for  me, 
Just  as  I  thought  I  was  getting  old. 


EHEU!  FUG  ACES. 

SWEET  sixteen  is  shy  and  cold, 
Calls  me  "  sir,"  and  thinks  me  old  ; 
Hears  in  an  embarrassed  way 
All  the  compliments  I  pay ; 

Finds  my  homage  quite  a  bore, 
Will  not  smile  on  me,  and  more 
To  her  taste  she  finds  the  noise 
And  the  chat  of  callow  boys. 

Not  the  lines  around  my  eye, 
Deepening  as  the  years  go  by  ; 
Not  white  hairs  that  strew  my  head, 
Nor  my  less  elastic  tread ; 

Cares  I  find,  nor  joys  I  miss, 
Make  me  feel  my  years  like  this ; — 
Sweet  sixteen  is  shy  and  cold, 
Calls  me  "  sir,"  and  thinks  me  old 


HENR  Y  A  UGUSTIN  BEERS. 


HENRY  AUGUSTIN  BEERS. 

[Professor  of  English  Literature,  Yale  College.  Born  at  Buffalo, 
N.  Y.,  2d  July  1847.  Graduated  at  Yale  College,  1869.  Author 
of  the  following  books: — A  Century  of  American  Literature 
("Leisure  Hour  Series,"  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York,  1878) ; 
Odds  and  Ends :  Verses  Humorous,  Occasional  and  Miscellaneous 
(Houghton,  Miffln  &  Co.,  Boston,  1878)  ;  Life  of  N.  P.  Willis 
("American  Men  of  Letters  Series,"  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
Boston,  1885)  ;  Selections  from  the  Prose  Writings  of  N.  P. 
Willis  (edited,  with  Introduction),  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons,  New 
York,  1885) ;  The  ThanHess  Muse,  verse  (Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.,  Boston,  1885);  An  Outline  Sketch  of  English  Literature 
(Phillips  &  Hunt,  New  York,  1886) ;  An  Outline  Sketch  of 
American  Literature  (Phillips  &Hunt,  New  York,  1887).  Pro 
fessor  Beers  has  also  written  numerous  uncollected  articles 
scattered  through  the  principal  Magazines,  etc.  The  poems 
quoted  come  from  The  Thankless  Muse,  printed  by  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  and  are  reprinted  by  kind  permission  of 
that  firm.] . 

BE  A  VER  POND  ME  ADO  W. 

THOU  art  my  Dismal  Swamp,  my  Everglades : 
Thou  my  Campagna,  where  the  bison  wades 
Through  shallow,  steaming  pools,  and  the  sick  air 
Decays.     Thou  my  Serboriian  Bog  art,  where 
O'er  leagues  of  mud,  black  vomit  of  the  Nile, 
Crawls  in  the  sun  the  myriad  crocodile. 
Or  thou  my  Cambridge  or  my  Lincoln  fen 
Shalt  be — a  lonely  land  where  stilted  men 
Stalking  across  the  surface  waters  go, 
Casting  long  shadows,  and  the  creaking,  slow 
Canal-barge,  laden  with  its  marshy  hay, 
Disturbs  the  stagnant  ditches  twice  a  day. 
Thou  hast  thy  crocodiles  :  on  rotten  logs 
Afloat,  the  turtles  swarm  and  bask  :  the  frogs, 
When  come  the  pale,  cold  twilights  of  the  spring, 
Like  distant  sleigh-bells  through  the  meadows  ring. 
The  schoolboy  comes  on  holidays  to  take 
The  musk-rat  in  its  hole,  or  kill  the  snake, 
Or  fish  for  bull-heads  in  the  pond  at  night. 
The  hog-snout's  swollen  corpse,  with  belly  white, 


244  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  find  upon  the  footway  through  the  sedge, 
Trodden  by  tramps  along  the  water's  edge. 

Not  thine  the  breath  of  the  salt  marsh  below, 

Where,  when  the  tide  is  out,  the  mowers  go 

Shearing  the  oozy  plain,  that  reeks  with  brine 

More  tonic  than  the  incense  of  the  pine. 

Thou  art  the  sink  of  all  uncleanliness, 

A  drain  for  slaughter-pens,  a  wilderness 

Of  trenches,  pockets,  quagmires,  bogs,  where  rank 

The  poison  sumach  grows,  and  in  the  tank 

The  water  standeth  ever  black  and  deep, 

Greened  o'er  with  scum  ;  foul  pottages,  that  steep 

And  brew  in  that  dark  broth,  at  night  distil 

Malarious  fogs,  bringing  the  fever  chill. 

Yet  grislier  horrors  thy  recesses  hold  : 

The  murdered  pedlar's  body,  five  days  old, 

Among  the  yellow-lily-pads,  was  found 

In  yonder  pond  :  the  new-born  babe  lay  drowned 

And  throttled  on  the  bottom  of  this  moat, 

Near  where  the  negro  hermit  keeps  his  boat ; 

Whose  wigwam  stands  beside  the  swamp  ;  whose  meals 

It  furnishes,  fat  pouts  and  mud-spawned  eels. 

Even  so  thou  hast  a  kind  of  beauty,  wild, 

Unwholesome — thou  the  suburb's  outcast  child, 

Behind  whose  grimy  skin  and  matted  hair 

Warm  nature  works  and  makes  her  creature  fair. 

Summer  has  wrought  a  blue  and  silver  border 

Of  iris  flags  and  flowers  in  triple  order 

Of  the  white  arrowhead  round  Beaver  Pond, 

And  o'er  the  milkweeds  in  the  swamp  beyond 

Tangled  the  dodder's  amber-coloured  threads. 

In  every  fosse  the  bladderwort's  bright  heads 

Like  orange  helmets  on  the  surface  show. 

Richer  surprises  still  thou  hast :  I  know 

The  ways  that  to  thy  penetralia  lead. 

Where  in  black  bogs  the  sundew's  sticky  bead 

Ensnares  young  insects,  and  that  rosy  lass, 

Sweet  Arethusa,  blushes  in  the  grass. 


HENR  Y  AUG  US  TIN  BEERS.  245 

Once  on  a  Sunday,  when  the  bells  were  still, 

Following  the  path  under  the  sandy  hill, 

Through  the  old  orchard  and  across  the  plank 

That  bridges  the  dead  stream,  past  many  a  rank 

Of  cat-tails,  midway  in  the  swamp  I  found 

A  small  green  mead  of  dry  but  spongy  ground, 

Entrenched  about  on  every  side  with  sluices 

Full  to  the  brim  of  thick  lethean  juices, 

The  filterings  of  the  marsh.     With  line  and  hook, 

Two  little  French  boys  from  the  trenches  took 

Frogs  for  their  Sunday  meal,  and  gathered  messes 

Of  pungent  salad  from  the  water- cresses, 

A  little  isle  of  foreign  soil  it  seemed, 

And  listening  to  their  outland  talk,  I  dreamed 

That  yonder  spire  above  the  elm-tops  calm 

Rose  from  the  village  chestnuts  of  La  Balme. 

Yes,  many  a  pretty  secret  hast  thou  shown 

To  me,  O  Beaver  Pond,  walking  alone 

On  summer  afternoons,  while  yet  the  swallow 

Skimmed  o'er  each  flaggy  plash  and  gravelly  shallow  ; 

Or  when  September  turned  the  swamps  to  gold 

And  purple.     But  the  year  is  growing  old ; 

The  golden-rod  is  rusted,  and  the  red 

That  streaked  October's  frosty  cheek  is  dead  ; 

Only  the  sumach's  garnet  pompons  make 

Procession  through  the  melancholy  brake. 

Lo !  even  now  the  autumnal  wind  blows  cool 

Over  the  rippled  waters  of  thy  pool, 

And  red  autumnal  sunset  colours  brood 

Where  I  alone  and  all  too  late  intrude. 


THE  RISING  OF  THE  CURTAIN. 

WE  sit  before  the  curtain,  and  we  heed  the  pleasant  bustle ; 
The  ushers  hastening  up  the  aisles,  the  fans'  and  pro 
grammes'  rustle ; 


246  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  boy  that  cries  librettos,  and  the  soft,  incessant  sound 
Of  talking  and  low  laughter  that  buzzes  all  around. 

How  very  old  the  drop-scene  looks  !     A  thousand  times 

before 
I've  seen  that  blue  paint  dashing  on  that  red  distemper 

shore ; 

The  castle  and  the  guazzo  sky,  the  very  ilex-tree, — 
They  have  been  there  a  thousand    years — a  thousand 

more  shall  be. 

All  our  lives  we  have  been  waiting  for  that  weary  daub 

to  rise ; 
We  have  peeped  behind  its  edges,  "  as  if  we  were  God's 

spies ; " 

We  have  listened  for  the  signal ;  yet  still,  as  in  our  youth, 
The  coloured  screen  of  matter  hangs  between  us  and  the 

truth. 

When  in  my  careless  childhood  I  dwelt  beside  a  wood, 
I  tired  of  the  clearing  where  my  father's  cabin  stood ; 
And  of  the  wild  young  forest  paths  that  coaxed  me  to 

explore, 
Then  dwindled  down,  or  led  me  back  to  where  I  stood 

before. 

But  through  the  woods  before  our  door  a  waggon  track 

went  by, 

Above  whose  utmost  western  edge  there  hung  an  open  sky; 
And  there  it   seemed   to  make  a  plunge,  or  break  off 

suddenly, 
As  though  beneath  that  open  sky  it  met  the  open  sea. 

Oh,  often  have  I  fancied,  in  the  sunset's  dreamy  glow, 
That  mine  eyes  had  caught  the  welter  of  the  ocean  waves 

below ; 
And  the  wind  among  the   pine-tops,  with  its  low  and 

ceaseless  roar, 
Was  but  an  echo  from  the  surf  on  that  imagined  shore. 


HENR  Y  AUGUS TIN  BEERS.  247 

Alas  !  as  I  grew  older,  I  found  that  road  led  down 
To  no  more  fair  horizon  than  the  squalid  factory  town; 
So  all  life's  purple  distances,  when  nearer  them  I  came, 
Have  played  me  still  the  same  old  cheat, — the  same,  the 
same,  the  same ! 

And  when,  O  King,  the  heaven  departeth  as  a  scroll, 
Wilt  thou  once  more  the  promise  break  thou  madest  to 

my  soul  1 
Shall  I  see  thy  feasting  presence  thronged  with  baron, 

knight,  and  page  1 
Or  will  the  curtain  rise  upon  a  dark  and  empty  stage  ? 

For  lo,  quick  undulations  across  the  canvas  run ; 

The  foot-lights  brighten  suddenly,  the  orchestra  has  done; 

And    through    the    expectant    silence    rings   loud   the 

prompter's  bell ; 
The    curtain    shakes, — it    rises.     Farewell,  dull  world, 

farewell ! 


HUGH  LA  TIMER. 

His  lips  amid  the  flame  outsent 
A  music  strong  and  sweet, 

Like  some  unearthly  instrument, 
That's  played  upon  by  heat. 

As  spice-wood  tough,  laid  on  the  coal, 

Sets  all  its  perfume  free, 
The  incense  of  his  hardy  soul, 

Hose  up  exceedingly. 

To  open  that  great  flower,  too  cold 
Were  sun  and  vernal  rain  ; 

But  fire  has  forced  it  to  unfold, 
Nor  will  it  shut  again. 


248  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

[Born  at  Groveland,  New  York,  1848.  Author  of  Thistledrift 
(1887,  New  York,  F.  A.  Stokes  &  Co.),  and  Wood  Blooms 
(New  York,  1888,  F.  A.  Stokes  &  Co.),  with  whose  kind  per 
mission  the  poems  quoted  below  are  given.  ] 

WAITING. 

THE  fields  fold  in  silence  the  ripened  sheaves, 
The  bright  moon  breaks  on  the  swinging  leaves, 
The  dark's  great  daisies  are  blowing  above, 
O  leap  to  my  side,  my  Love,  my  Love ! 

You  have  said  not  a  gem  in  the  blue  below, 
But,  on  my  neck,  but  would  lose  the  glow ; 
You  have  said  no  bloom  in  the  blue  above 
Is  fit  for  my  bosom,  Love,  my  Love. 

You  have  likened  my  song  to  the  song  of  the  bird, 
My  sigh  to  the  tree's  the  night  wind  stirred  : 
Like  the  moan  of  the  pine,  of  the  lone  wild  dove, 
My  song,  my  sighing,  to-night,  my  Love. 

The  fields  fold  in  glory  the  golden  sheaves, 
The  full  moon  silvers  the  swinging  leaves : 
As  the  white  cloud  waits  for  the  wind  above, 
I'm  waiting  for  you,  my  Love — my  Love. 


OUR  MOTHER. 

WHEN  the  first  man  stood  forth  in  Paradise, 
And  the  first  woman  came  to  grace  her  bowers, 
The  conscious  garden  glowed  with  thousand  flowers, 
With  light — wild,  laughing  light,  in  thousand  eyes 
Of  beauty.     Lovelier  than  young  morning  lies 
On  hill-tops,  hovered  round  the  wondering  hours  ; 
And  splendors  richer  than  the  red  west  showers 
Fell  wide  on  Eden,  all  glory  and  surprise. 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY.  249 

And  does  Our  Mother  love  us,  now,  the  less, 
And  why  we  fail  her,  does  she  understand? 
For  him  that  comes  with  trust  and  tenderness, 
Eden  still  blossoms  from  her  very  sand  : 
Some  flower — believe  it — blossoming  but  to  bless, 
Will  wait  to  wither  in  the  last  man's  hand. 


GREAT  IS  TO-DAY. 

OUT  in  a  world  that's  gone  to  weed  ! 

The  great  tall  corn  is  still  strong  in  his  seed ; 

Plant  her  breast  with  laughter,  put  song  in  your  toil, 

The  heart  is  still  young  in  the  mother  soil  : 

There's  sunshine  and  bird-song,  and  red  and  white  clover, 

And  love  lives  yet,  world  under  and  over. 

The  light's  white  as  ever,  sow  and  believe, 

Clearer  dews  did  not  glisten  round  Adam  and  Eve, 

Never  bluer  heavens  nor  greener  sod 

Since  the  round  world  rolled  from  the  hand  of  God. 

There's  a  sun  to  go  down,  to  come  up  again, 

There  are  new  moons  to  fill  when  the  old  moons  wane. 

Is  wisdom  dead  since  Plato's  no  more, 

Who'll  that  babe  be,  in  yon  cottage  door? 

While  your  Shakspeare,  your  Milton  takes  his  place  in 

the  tomb 

His  brother  is  stirring  in  the  good  mother-womb : 
There's  glancing  of  daisies  and  running  of  brooks, 
Ay,  life  enough  left  to  write  in  the  books. 

The  world's  not  all  wisdom,  nor  poems,  nor  flowers, 
But  each  day  has  the  same  good  twenty-four  hours, 
The  same  light,  the  same  night.  For  your  Jacobs,  no 

tears ; 

They  see  the  Rachels  at  the  end  of  the  years  : 
There's  waving  of  wheat,  and  the  tall  strong  corn 
And  his  heart  blood  is  water  that  sitteth  forlorn. 


250  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

SNOWFLAKES. 

FALLING  all  the  night-time, 

Falling  all  the  day, 
Silent  into  silence, 

From  the  far-away, — 

Never  came  like  glory 

To  the  April  leas, 
Never  summer  blossoms 

Thick  and  white  as  these. 

Falling  all  the  night-time, 

Falling  all  the  day, 
Stilly  as  the  spirits 

Come  from  far-away, — 

Snowflakes,  winged  snowflakes, 
Fancy,  following,  sees 

Souls  of  flowers  flutt'ring 
Over  winter  leas. 


SPRING  SONG. 

INVISIBLE  hands  from  summer  lands 
Have  plucked  the  icicles  one  by  one ; 
And  sly  little  fingers,  reached  down  from  the  sun, 
Lay  hold  on  the  tips  of  the  grass  in  the  sands. 
And  O,  and  O 
Where  is  the  snow  ! 
The  crow  is  calling, 
Showers  are  falling. 

Up,  up  and  out  of  your  garments  gray, 
Ho  willow  and  weed,  each  secret  seed  ; 
The  music  of  waters  is  heard  in  the  mead, 
And  surly  old  winter  has  hied  him  away ! 
And  O,  and  O 
Where  is  the  snow  ! 
The  snake  is  crawling 
Showers  are  falling. 


JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY.  251 


LOVES  OF  LEAVES  AND  GRASSES. 

THE  little  leaves,  ah  me  ! 
Coquetting  in  the  tree  ! 
Swaying  in  the  sunny  weather, 
Now,  they  steal  together, 
Now,  flutter  free,  as  fain 
Never  to  kiss  again. 

Yon  grass — there,  too,  I  see 
Suspicious  gallantry  : 
Each  spear  unto  his  sweeting 
Whispers  a  secret  greeting, 
Then  primly,  in  the  sun, 
Smiles  over  what  he's  done. 

-  Sweet  spring-time  in  the  tree, 
In  fields  where  grasses  be ! 
So  perfect  is  his  vesture, 
So  pretty  every  gesture, 
I  ween  no  leaf  or  blade 
But  wins  his  dainty  maid. 


SONG  OF  THE  GLOAMING. 

THE  toad  has  the  road,  the  cricket  sings, 
The  heavy  beetle  spreads  her  wings : 

The  bat  is  the  rover, 

No  bee  on  the  clover, 

The  day  is  over, 

And  evening  come. 

The  brake  is  awake,  the  grass  aglow, 
The  star  above,  the  fly  below  : 

The  bat  is  the  rover, 

No  bee  on  the  clover, 

The  day  is  over, 

And  evening  come. 


252  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  stream  moves  in  dream,  the  low  winds  tune, 
'Tis  vespers  at  the  shrine  of  June  : 

The  bat  is  the  rover, 

No  bee  on  the  clover, 

The  day  is  over, 

And  evening  come. 


HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN. 

[Born  at  Fredericksvoern,  Norway,  23d  September  1848.  Author 
of  Gunnar ;  A  Norse  Romance  (New  York,  1874);  A  Norse 
man's  Pilgrimage  (1875);  Tales  from  Two  Hemispheres  (Boston, 
1876) ;  Falconberg  (1878),;  Goethe  and  Schiller;  their  Lives  and 
Works  (1878);  Ilka  on  the  Hill-Top,  and  other  Stories  (1881); 
Queen  Titania  (1882);  A  Daughter  of  the  Philistines  (Boston, 
1884) ;  The  Story  of  Norway  (1886) ;  The  Light  of  Her 
Countenance  (1889) ;  Vagabond  Tales  (1889)  ;  Idylls  of  Norway 
(1882).  The  poems  given  are  from  the  last  volume,  and  are 
published  with  the  kind  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

THE  LOST  HELLAS. 

O  FOR  a  breath  of  myrtle  and  of  bay, 

And  glints  of  sunny  skies  through  dark  leaves  flashing 

And  dimpling  seas  beneath  a  golden  day, 

Against  the  strand  with  soft  susurrus  plashing  ! 

And  fair  nude  youths,  with  shouts  and  laughter  dashing 

Along  the  shining  beach  in  martial  play  ! 

And  rearing  'gainst  the  sky  their  snowy  portals, 

The  temples  of  the  glorious  Immortals  ! 

Thus  oft  thou  risest,  Hellas,  from  my  soul — 
A  vision  of  the  happy  vernal  ages, 
When  men  first  strove  to  read  life's  mystic  scroll, 
But  with  the  torch  of  joy  lit  up  its  pages  ; 
When  with  untroubled  front  the  cheerful  sages 
Serenely  wandered  toward  their  shadowy  goal, 
And  praised  the  gods  in  dance  of  stately  measure, 
And  stooped  to  pluck  the  harmless  bud  of  pleasure. 


HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN.  253 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  the  primal  night, 
Like  as  a  dewy  Delos  from  the  ocean, 
Thy  glory  rose — a  birthplace  for  the  bright 
Sun-god  of  thought.     And  freedom,  high  devotion, 
And  song,  sprung  from  the  fount  of  pure  emotion, 
Bloomed  in  the  footsteps  of  the  God  of  light, 
And  Night  shrank  back  before  the  joyous  paean, 
And  flushed  with  morning  rolled  the  blue  ^Slgean. 

Then  on  Olympus  reigned  a  beauteous  throng ; 

The  heaven's  wide  arch  by  wrathful  Zeus  was  shaken  ; 

Fair  Phoebus  sped  his  radiant  path  along, 

The  darkling  earth  from  happy  sleep  to  waken ; 

And  wept  when  by  the  timorous  nymph  forsaken, 

His  passion  breathing  in  complaining  song ; 

And  kindled  in  the  bard  the  sacred  fire, 

And  lured  sweet  music  from  the  silent  lyre. 

Then  teemed  the  earth  with  creatures  glad  and  fair ; 
A  calm,  benignant  god  dwelt  in  each  river, 
And  through  the  rippling  stream  a  naiad's  bare 
White  limbs  would  upward  faintly  flash  and  quiver. 
Through  prisoning  bark  the  dryad's  sigh  would  shiver, 
Expiring  softly  on  the  languorous  air ; 
And  strange  low  notes,  that  scarce  the  blunt  sense  seize?, 
Were  zephyr  voices  whispering  in  the  breezes. 

Chaste  Artemis,  who  guides  the  lunar  car, 

The  pale  nocturnal  vigils  ever  keeping, 

Sped  through  the  silent  space  from  star  to  star, 

And,  blushing,  stooped  to  kiss  Endyinion  sleeping ; 

And  Psyche,  on  the  lonely  mountain  weeping, 

Was  clasped  to  Eros'  heart,  and  wandered  far 

To  brave  dread  Cerberus  and  the  Stygian  water, 

With  that  sweet,  dauntless  trust  her  love  had  taught  her. 

On  Nature's  ample,  warmly  throbbing  breast, 
Both  god  and  man  and  beast  reposed  securely ; 
And  in  one  large  embrace  she  closely  pressed 
All  being's  fullness,  myriad-shaped  but  surely 
The  self  same  life ;  she  saw  the  soul  rise  purely 


254  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  ever  upward  in  its  groping  quest 

For  nobler  forms  ;  and  knew  in  all  creation 

The  same  divinely  passionate  pulsation. 

Thus  rose  the  legends  fair,  which  faintly  light 
The  misty  centuries  with  their  pallid  glimmer, 
Of  fauns  who  roarn  on  Mount  Cithairoii's  height, 
Where  through  the  leaves  their  sunburnt  faces  shimmer, 
And  in  cool  copses,  where  the  day  is  dimmer, 
You  hear  the  trampling  of  their  herded  flight ; 
And  see  the  treetops  wave  their  progress  after, 
And  hear  their  shouts  of  wild,  immortal  laughter. 

The  vast  and  foaming  life,  the  fierce  desire 

Which  pulses  hotly  through  the  veins  of  Nature — 

Creative  rapture  and  the  breath  of  tire 

Which  in  exalting  blight  and  slay  the  creature ; 

The  forces  seething  'neath  each  placid  feature 

Of  Nature's  visage  which  our  awe  inspire 

All  glow  and  throb  with  fervid  hope  and  gladness 

In  Dionysus  and  his  sacred  madness. 

Each  year  the  lovely  god  with  vine-wreathed  brow 
In  dreamy  transport  roves  the  young  earth  over ; 
The  faun  that  gaily  swings  the  thyrsus  bough, 
The  nymph  chased  hotly  by  her  satyr  lover, 
The  roguish  Cupids  'mid  the  flowers  that  hover — 
All  join  his  clamorous  train,  and  upward  now 
Sweep  storms  of  voices  through  the  heavens  sonorous 
With  gusts  of  song  and  dithyrambic  chorus. 

But  where  great  Nature  guards  her  secret  soul, 
Where  viewless  fountains  hum  in  sylvan  closes, 
There,  leaned  against  a  rugged  oak-tree's  bole, 
Amid  the  rustling  sedges,  Pan  reposes. 
And  round  about  the  slumberous  sunshine  dozes, 
While  from  his  pastoral  pipe  rise  sounds  of  dole ; 
And  through  the  stillness  in  the  forest  reigning, 
One  hears  afar  the  shrill,  sad  notes  complaining. 


HJALMAR  HJORTH  ROYESEN.  255 

Thus,  in  the  olden  time,  while  yet  the  world 
A  vale  of  joy  was,  and  a  lovely  wonder, 
Men  plucked  the  bud  within  its  calyx  curled, 
Revered  the  still,  sweefc  lite  that  slept  thereunder ; 
They  did  not  tear  the  delicate  thing  asunder 
To  see  its  beauty  wantonly  unfurled, 
They  sat  at  Nature's  feet  with  awed  emotion, 
Like  children  listening  to  the  mighty  ocean. 

And  thus  they  nobly  grew  to  perfect  bloom, 
With  gaze  unclouded,  in  serene  endeavour, 
No  fever-vision  from  beyond  the  tomb 
Broke  o'er  their  bright  and  sunlit  pathway  ever, 
For  gently  as  a  kiss  came  Death  to  sever 
From  spirit  flesh,  and  to  the  realm  of  gloom 
The  pallid  shades  with  fearless  brow  descended 
To  Hades,  by  the  winged  god  attended. 

Why  sorrow,  then — with  vain  petitions  seek 

The  lofty  gods  in  their  abodes  eternal  ? 

To  live  is  pleasant,  and  to  be  a  Greek ; 

To  see  the  earth  in  garments  fresh  and  vernal, 

To  watch  the  fair  youths  in  their  sports  diurnal, 

To  feel  against  your  own  a  maid's  warm  cheek, 

To  see  from  sculptured  shrines  the  smoke  ascending, 

And  with  the  clouds  and  ether  vaguely  blending. 

And  sweet  it  is  to  hear  the  noble  tongue, 
Pure  Attic  Greek  with  soft  precision  spoken ! 
And  ah  !  to  hear  its  liquid  music  flung, 
In  rocking  chords  and  melodies  unbroken, 
From  Homer's  stormy  harp — the  deathless  token 
That  Hellas'  Titan  soul  is  strong  and  young — 
Young  as  the  spring  that's  past,  whose  name  assuages 
The  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  sunless  ages. 

Her  fanes  are  shattered,  and  her  bards  are  dead, 
But,  like  a  flame  from  ruins,  leaps  her  glory 
Up  from  her  sacred  dust  its  rays  to  shed 
On  alien  skies  of  art  and  song  and  story, 
Her  spirit  rising  from  her  temples  hoary 


256  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Through  barren  climes  dispersed,  hns  northward  fled ; 
As,  though  the  flower  be  dead,  its  breath  may  hover, 
A  homeless  fragrance,  sweet,  the  meadows  over. 


EVOLUTION. 


BROAD  were  the  bases  of  all  being  laid, 

On  pillars  sunk  in  the  unfathomed  deep 

Of  universal  void  and  primal  sleep. 

Some  mighty  will,  in  sooth,  there  was  that  swayed 

The  misty  atoms  which  inhabited 

The  barren,  unillumined  fields  of  space  ; 

A  breath,  perchance,  that  whirled  the  mists  apace, 

And  shook  the  heavy  indolence  that  weighed 

Upon  the  moveless  vapours.     Oh,  what  vast, 

Resounding  undulations  of  effect 

Awoke  that  breath  !     What  dizzying  aeons  passed 

Ere  yet  a  lichen  patch  the  bare  rock  flecked  ! 

Thus  rolls  with  boom  of  elemental  strife 

The  ancestry  e'en  of  the  meanest  life. 

II. 

I  am  the  child  of  earth  and  air  and  sea  ! 

My  lullaby  by  hoarse  Silurian  storms 

Was  chanted,  and  through  endless  changing  forms 

Of  plant  an  d^  bird  and  beast  unceasingly 

The  toiling  ages  wrought  to  fashion  me. 

Lo  these  large  ancestors  have  left  a  breath 

Of  their  strong  souls  in  mine,  defying  death 

And  doom.     I  grow  and  blossom  as  the  tree, 

And  ever  feel  deep-delving  earthly  roots 

Bending  me  daily  to  the  common  clay  ; 

But  with  its  airy  impulse  upward  shoots 

My  life  into  the  realms  of  light  and  day  : 

And  thou,  O  sea,  stern  mother  of  my  soul, 

Thy  tempests  sing  in  me,  thy  billows  roll. 


HJALMAR  HJORTH  BOYESEN.  257 

in. 

A  sacred  kinship  I  would  not  forego 

Binds  me  to  all  that  breathes ;  through  endless  strife 

The  calm  and  deathless  dignity  of  life 

Unites  each  bleeding  victim  to  its  foe. 

What  life  is  in  its  essence,  who  doth  know  ? 

The  iron  chain  that  all  creation  girds, 

Encompassing  myself  and  beasts  and  birds, 

Forges  its  bond  unceasing  from  below, — 

From  water,  stone,  and  plant,  e'en  unto  man. 

Within  the  rose  a  pulse  that  answered  mine 

(Though  hushed  and  silently  its  life-tide  ran) 

I  oft  have  felt ;  but  when  with  joy  divine 

I  hear  the  song-thrush  warbling  in  my  brain 

Is  glory  in  this  vast  creation's  chain. 

IV. 

I  stood  and  gazed  with  wonder  blent  with  awe 

Upon  the  giant  footprints  Nature  left 

Of  her  primeval  march  in  yonder  cleft : 

A  fern-leaf's  airy  woof,  a  reptile's  claw, 

In  their  eternal  slumber  there  I  saw 

In  deftly-wrought  sarcophagi  of  stone. 

What  humid  tempests,  from  rank  forests  blown, 

Whirled  from  its  parent  stem  yon  slender  straw  ? 

What  scaly  creature  of  a  monstrous  breed 

Bore  yonder  web-foot  through  the  tepid  tide  1 

Oh,  what  wide  vistas  thronged  with  mighty  deed 

And  mightier  thought  have  here  mine  eyes  descried  ! 

Come,  a  fraternal  grasp,  thou  hand  of  stone  ! 

That  flesh  that  once  was  thine  is  now  mine  own. 

v. 

Sublime  is  life,  though  in  beginnings  base 
At  first  enkindled.     In  this  clod  of  mold 
Beats  with  faint  spirit-pulse  the  heart  of  gold 
That  warms  the  lily's  cheek ;  its  silent  grace 
B 


258  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Dwells  unborn  'neath  this  sod.     Fain  would  I  trace 

The  potent  mystery  which,  like  Midas'  hand, 

Thrills  the  mean  clay  into  refulgence  grand  \ 

For,  gazing  down  the  misty  aisles  of  space 

And  time,  upon  my  sight  vast  visions  throng 

Of  the  imperial  destiny  of  man. 

The  life  that  throbbed  in  plant  and  beast  ere  long 

Will  break  still  wider  orbits  in  its  van, — 

A  race  of  peace-robed  conquerors  and  Hugs, 

Achieving  evermore  diviner  things. 


CHARLES  DE  KAY. 

[Born  at  Washington,  District  of  Columbia,  1848.  Author  of 
Hesperus  (New  York,  1880,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons) ;  The 
Vision  ofNimrod  (New  York,  1881,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.);  The 
Vision  of  Esther  (New  York,  1882,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.)  ;  The 
Love  Poems  of  Louis  Barna/cal  (New  York,  1883,  D.  Appleton  & 
Co.).  The  two  last  poems  are  from  the  last  of  these  volumes,  the 
others  from  the  first ;  and  they  are  given  by  special  permission.] 

ARCANA  SYLVARUM. 

HARK!  .  .  . 

What  booming 

Faints  on  the  high-strung  ear  ? 

Through  the  damp  woods  (so  dark 

No  flowers  are  blooming) 

I  hear,  I  hear 

The  twang  of  harps,  the  leap 

Of  hairy  feet,  and  know  the  revel's  ripe, 

While,  like  a  coral  stripe, 

The  lizard  cool  doth  creep, 

Monster,  but  monarch  there,  up  the  pale  Indian  Pipe. 

Hush!  .  .  . 

Your  panting 

Will  scare  them  from  their  game. 

Let  not  a  foot-fall  crush 

Their  rites  enchanting ! 

The  dead  wood's  flame, 


CHARLES  DE  KA  Y.  259 

Bellies  of  murdered  fire-flies 

And  glimmering  moonstones  thick  with  treasured  rays 

Shall  help  our  round-eyed  gaze 

Antics  unholy  to  surprise 

Which  the  ungodly  crew  round  the  red  lizard  plays. 

Now  !  .  .   . 
No  breathing 

To  spoil  the  heathenish  dance ! 
Lest  from  each  pendent  bough 
Poison  be  seething, 
A  hair-fine  lance 

Pierce  to  our  brain  and  slowly  slay. 
But  look  your  breathless  fill,  and  mark  them  swing, 
Man  and  maid  a  capering, 
Ugly,  fair,  morosely  gay, 

Round  the  red  lizard  smooth,  crowned  for  their  wicked 
king. 

Back !  .  .  . 
Inhuman 

Are  gestures,  laughs  and  jeers. 
Off,  ere  we  lose  the  track  ! 
Nor  man  nor  woman 
May  stand  your  leers, 
Shameless  and  loose,  uncovered  creatures ! 
Quick,  lest  we  join  their  orgies  in  the  dark  ! 
Back  !  for  the  madness  stark 
Is  crawling  through  our  nature 

To  touch  the  red  lizard  vile,  spread  on  the  damp  white 
bark. 


INVOCATION. 

SCENT  of  the  rose  !  .  .  . 

Breath  of  the  new-ploughed  field  and  verdurous  sigh 

From  copses  budding !  .   .  . 

Myrrhs  that  the  chafing  boughs 


260  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Of  aromatic  pine-trees  cause  to  fly 
O'er  coily  fern-tops,  studding 

The  layers  damp  of  fronds  that  heap  in  long  wind-rifted 
rows  .  .  . 

Bloom  of  the  quince 

So  firm  and  ruddy  and  tender  to  foretell 
Crisp  fruit  and  solid  !  .  . 
Heart  of  the  forest  prince 
Of  odour  nuttier  than  the  sandal  smell !  .   .  . 
And  all  ye  marshes  squalid 

Whose  fog  a  savoury  saltness  pricks,  whose  veins  the  clear 
tides  rinse  .  .  . 

Hair  of  the  night 

Black  where  the  stars  glimmer  in  sparks  of  gold 
Through  tresses  fragrant  .  .  . 
Breeze  that  in  smooth  cool  flight 
Trails  a  strange  heat  across  the  listening  wold  .  .   . 
Breast  of  the  coy  and  vagrant 

Uncertain  spring,  beneath  whose  cold  glows  the  great 
heart  of  light  .  .  . 

Clouds  of  the  blue, 

Crowned  by  the  sun  and  torn  by  lightning-jag  .  .  . 

And  joyous  sparkles 

In  seas  and  drops  of  dew  .  .  . 

Ye  smiles  and  frowns  that  alter  where  the  crag 

Glitters  and  darkles !  .  .  . 

Hear  me,  ye  blissful,  that  alone  see  why  I  call  on  you ! 


ULF  IN  IRELAND. 

(A.D.  790.) 

WHAT  then,  what  if  my  lips  do  burn, 

Husband,  husband ; 

What  though  thou  see'st  my  red  lips  burn 
Why  look'st  thou  with  a  look  so  stern, 
Husband  ? 


CHARLES  DE  KAY.  261 

It  was  the  keen  wind  through  the  reed, 

Husband,  husband  : 

'Twas  wind  made  sharp  with  sword-edge  reed 
That  made  my  tender  lips  to  bleed, 

Husband. 

And  hath  the  wind  a  human  tooth, 

Woman,  woman  ? 

Can  light  wind  mark  like  human  tooth 
A  shameful  scar  of  love  uncouth, 

Woman  ? 

What  horror  lurks  within  your  eyes, 

Husband,  husband? 
What  lurking  horror  strains  your  eyes, 
What  black  thoughts  from  your  heart  arise, 

Husband  ? 

Who  stood  beside  you  at  the  gate, 

Woman,  woman  ? 
Who  stood  so  near  you  by  the  gate 
No  moon  your  shapes  could  separate, 

Woman  ? 

So  God  me  save,  'twas  I  alone, 

Husband,  Imsband  ! 
So  Christ  me  save,  'twas  I  alone 
Stood  listening  to  the  ocean  moan, 

Husband  ! 

Then  hast  thou  four  feet  at  the  least, 

Woman,  woman  t 

Thy  Christ  hath  lent  thee  four  at  least, 
Oh,  viler  than  four-footed  beast, 

Woman  I 

A  heathen  witch  hath  thee  unmanned, 

Husband,  husband  ! 
A  foul  witchcraft,  alas,  unmanned : 
Thou  saw'st  some  old  tracks  down  the  sand, 

Husband  ! 


262  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Yet  were  they  tracks  that  went  not  far, 

Woman,  woman; 

Those  ancient  foot-marks  went  not  far, 
Or  else  you  search  the  harbour  bar, 

Woman. 

It  is  not  yours  alone  that  bleed, 

Woman,  woman; 

Smooth  lips  not  yours  may  also  bleed, 
Your  wound  has  been  avenged  with  speed, 

Woman  ! 

What  talk  you  so  of  bar  and  wound, 

Husband,  husband? 
What  ghastly  sign  of  sudden  wound 
And  kinsman  smitten  to  the  ground, 
Husband  ? 

/  saw  your  blood  upon  his  cheek, 

Woman,  woman; 

The  moon  had  marked  his  treacherous  cheek, 
I  marked  his  heart  beside  the  creek, 

Woman  ! 

What,  have  you  crushed  the  only  flower, 
Husband,  husband ! 

Among  our  weeds  the  only  flower  ? 

Henceforward  get  you  from  my  bower, 
Husband ! 

I  love  you  not ;  I  loved  but  him, 
Husband,  husband ; 

In  all  the  world  I  loved  but  him ; 

Not  hell  my  love  for  Brenn  shall  dim, 
Husband  ! 

He's  caught  her  by  her  jet-black  hair  : 

Sorrow,  sorrow ! 

He's  bent  her  head  back  by  the  hair 
Till  all  her  throbbing  throat  lies  bare — 

Sorrow ! 


CHARLES  DE  KA  Y.  263 

You  knew  trie  fiercer  than  the  wolf, 

Woman,  woman; 

You  knew  I  well  am  named  the  wolf ; 
I  shall  both  you  and  him  engulf, 

Woman. 

Yet  I  to  you  was  always  kind, 

Woman,  woman; 
To  serpents  only  fools  are  kind  ; 
Yet  still  with  love  of  you  Fm  blind, 

Woman. 

I'll  look  no  more  upon  your  face, 

Woman,  woman; 

These  eyes  shall  never  read  your  face, 
For  you  shall  die  in  this  small  space, 

Woman  ! 

He's  laid  his  mouth  below  her  chin, 

Horror ! 

That  throat  he  kissed  below  the  chin 
No  breath  thereafter  entered  in  : 

Horror,  horror  ! 


SURRENDER. 

THERE  lies  a  bliss  just  in  the  lion's  jaws 

Ere  yet  his  fangs  crush  to  the  very  bone, 
The  while  his  dread  broad  soft  unswerving  paws 

Rest  on  a  victim  without  cry  or  moan, 
But  keenly  wakeful  to  his  great  warm  mouth, 
His  yellow  eyes,  lovely,  yet  void  of  routh, 
The  cloudy  mane  his  awful  shoulders  wreathing, 
His  deep  low  breathing. 

And  there's  a  hatred  for  the  being,  too, 
That  drags  a  wounded  life  among  his  kin  ; 

An  instinct  vile  the  helpless  to  undo 

And  lick  the  creature  dust  of  those  that  win. 


264  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

As  though  'twere  needful  to  be  baser  yet 
A  longing  sometimes  will  the  bosom  fret, 
While  garlands  fresh  the  haughtiest  heads  are  crowning 
To  drown  the  drowning. 

There's  a  strange  luxury  in  being  undone 

Crushed  flat,  brayed  tine,  wiped  out  and  all  destroyed, 
A  mighty  joy  to  meet  that  glorious  one 

Whose  power  is  boundless  as  the  unsounded  void, 
To  feel  a  force  that  plays  with  you  a  while, 
Takes  your  best  life's  blood  for  his  lawful  spoil 
Till,  fed  superb  by  you,  the  careless  render 
Stalks  on  in  splendour. 

Have  you  not  felt  it,  that  wild  thrill  of  joy — 
Such  joy  perchance  as  the  sad  Hindoo  feels 

When  priests  drag  forth  their  grim  and  giant  toy 
And  o'er  his  neck  crunch  the  slow  turning  wheels  1 

Women,  ye  know  what  the  sweet  anguish  is 

In  being  o'erthvown,  what  though  the  giver  of  bliss 

Be  god  or  lion,  ah,  or  manlike  demon — 
Speak,  O  ye  women  ! 


THE  TORNADO. 

WHOSE  eye  has  marked  his  gendering  ?     On  his  throne 

He  dwells  apart  in  roofless  caves  of  air, 

Born  of  the  stagnant,  blown  of  the  glassy  heat 

O'er  the  still  mere  Sargasso.     When  the  world 

Has  fallen  voluptuous,  and  the  isles  are  grown 

So  bold  they  cry,  God  sees  not ! — as  a  rare 

Sunflashing  iceberg  towers  on  high,  and  fleet 

As  air-ships  rise,  by  upward  currents  whirled, 

Even  so  the  bane  of  lustful  islanders 

Wings  him  aloft.     And  scarce  a  pinion  stirs. 

There  gathering  hues,  he  stoopeth  down  again, 
Down  from  the  vault.     Locks  of  the  gold-tipped  cloud 
Fly  o'er  his  head ;  his  eyes,  Saint  Elmo  flames  ; 
His  mouth,  a  surf  on  a  red  coral  reef. 


CHARLES  DE  KA  Y.  265 

Embroidered  is  his  cloak  of  dark  blue  stain 
With  lightning  jags.      Upon  his  pathway  crowd 
Dull  Shudder,  wan-faced  Quaking,  Ghastly-dreams. 
And  after  these,  in  order  near  their  chief, 
Start,  Tremor,  Faint-heart,  Panic  and  Affray, 
Horror  with  blanching  eyes,  and  limp  Dismay 

Unroll  a  grey-green  carpet  him  before 
Swathed  in  thick  foam  :  thereon  adventuring,  bark 
Need  never  hope  to  live  ;  that  yeasty  pile 
Bears  her  no  longer  ;  to  the  mast-head  plunged 
She  writhes  and  groans,  careens,  and  is  no  more. 
Now,  prickt  by  fear,  the  man-devourer  shark, 
Gale-breasting  gull  and  whale  that  dreams  no  guile 
Till  the  sharp  steel  quite  to  the  life  has  lunged, 
Before  his  pitiless,  onward-hurling  form 
Hurry  toward  land  for  shelter  from  the  storm. 

In  vain.     Tornado  and  his  pursuivants, 
Whirlwind  of  giant  bulk,  and  Water-spout, — 
The  gruesome,  tortuous  devil-fish  of  rain — 
O'ertake  them  on  the  shoals  and  leave  them  dead. 
Doomsday  has  come.     Now  men  in  speechless  trance 
Glower  unmoved  upon  the  hideous  rout, 
Or,  shrieking,  fly  to  holes,  or  yet  complain 
One  moment  to  that  lordly  face  of  dread 
Before  he  quits  the  mountain  of  his  wave 
And  strews  for  all  impartially  their  grave. 

And  as  in  court-yard  corners  on  the  wind 
Sweep  the  loose  straws,  houses  and  stately  trees 
Whirl  in  a  vortex.     His  unswerving  tread 
Winnows  the  isle  bare  as  a  thresher's  floor. 
His  eyes  are  fixed  ;  he  looks  not  once  behind, 
But  at  his  back  fall  silence  and  the  breeze. 
Scarce  is  he  come,  the  lovely  wraith  is  sped. 
Ashamed  the  lightning  shuts  its  purple  door, 
And  heaven  still  knows  the  robes  of  gold  and  dun, 
While  placid  Ruin  gently  greets  the  sun. 


266  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


SERENADE. 

WHEN  on  the  pane  your  face  you  press 
The  twin  lights  gazing  toward  the  shore 
Ai'e  my  two  eyes  for  evermore. 

Behold  and  weigh  their  dumb  distress : 
Against  that  one  sweet  fleeting  sight 
They  bide  them  constant  all  the  night. 

The  grey  gull  blown  from  out  the  sea 

That  gains  swift-wing'd  your  purple  shore 
When  far  out  grievous  tempests  roar 

Is  my  embodied  thought  of  thee. 

My  world,  so  dry  with  hopeless  drouth, 
Grows  fresh  at  thought  of  one  red  mouth. 

The  wild-rose  reaching  forth  a  hand 
To  grasp  your  robe  on  bridle  path 
Be  sacred  from  your  gentle  wrath, 

It  is  my  longing  fills  the  land. 
The  grasses  on  each  favoured  sod 
Bow  down  to  kiss  where  you  have  trod. 

The  winds  that  in  the  chimney  blow 
Are  babbled  words  of  tenderness, 
And  tributes  to  your  loveliness 

The  red  leaves  falling  from  the  bough. 
In  love  so  wide  and  yet  so  rare 
Each  thing  of  nature  asks  a  share. 


FROM  "BARNA  VAL." 

Ask  of  voices  in  the  twilight 

And  of  waves  along  the  shore, 
Ask  of  pine-trees  when  they  murmur 
Sound  that's  music  to  the  core — 
Peradventure  they  can  tell 
111  or  well  . 


CHARLES  DE  KA  Y.  267 

Ask  the  sunset  o'er  the  mountain 

And  the  white  cloud  and  the  brown, 
Ask  the  larches  in  the  gloaming 
If  delight  may  wear  a  frown — 
For  there  lurks  in  sylvan  dell 
Many  a  spell  .... 

Ask  the  woods  ablaze  at  midnight 
And  the  northern  wildfire  dance, 
Ask  the  red  moon  o'er  the  ocean 
For  a  flame  that  haunts  a  glance — 
Marvels  greater  oft  befell 
Monk  in  cell  .... 

Ask  the  lines  of  lapsing  water 

And  the  cypress  in  the  wind, 
Ask  the  lovely  curves  of  islands 
For  a  grace  that  heals  the  blind — 
Caught  in  whorls  of  little  shells 
Beauty  dwells  .... 

Ask  of  thrushes  brown  of  pinion 
And  the  day-fly's  velvet  wing, 
Ask  the  golden  heart  of  pansies 
For  the  daintiest  living  thing — 

Bees  have  tolled  when  branches  swell 
Winter's  knell  .... 

Ask.     And  if  all  nature  loves  you, 
Melodies,  and  clouds,  and  moon, 
Forms  of  beauty,  woodland  perfumes, 
Each  and  all  shall  serve  as  rune 
Whence  the  maiden's  name  to  spell 
I  love  well. 


268  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

FROM  "BARNAVAL? 

YELLOW  and  amber-hued,  pink-white,  gold-red 
Roses  for  one  pulled  who  at  last  came  not, 
Roses,  your  perfumes  to  the  dustiest  spot, 

Each  cobweb  of  my  attic  now  are  sped, 

And  soothe  me  with  a  fond  reproach  when  all  complaints 
are  said. 

Droop  the  head,  beauties,  oh,  and  rain  your  leaves 
Along  the  bare  and  sunrif  t  powdered  floor ! 
Though   death   be  nigh,    could  ye  have    blossomed 

more? 

Did  ye  not  waste  beneath  my  humble  eaves 
As  much,  to  you  as  all  the  West's  innumerable  sheaves  ? 

Generous,  celestial,  rainbow-tinctured  souls, 

Too  great  to  murmur  at  your  slender  fate, 
Would  you  were  fixed  in  firm  and  gorgeous  state 

On  convent  walls  where  daily  upward  rolls 

To   heaven  in  incense  for  that  queen  whose  meekness 
heaven  controls ! 

Roses,  I  am  so  lonely  in  the  waste  ! 

And  ye  too  pass,  and  sunsets  flit  and  fade ; 
The  birds  are  going  ;  music  dies  while  made 

And  every  noble  thing  away  must  haste : 

I    linger    here    and    think    on    one    henceforth   forlorn, 
disgraced. 

Why  should  man  seem  so  noble — and  not  be  ? 

Why  from  his  heart  shed  forth  a  perfume  rare 
That  only  seems  to  embalm  the  troubled  air  ? 

Why  talk  so  true,  why  be  so  fair  to  see, 

Why   wrap    about    him    snake-skin    robes    rank    with 
hypocrisy  ? 

Roses,  farewell  !     I  could  not  keep  you  here 
To  linger  longer  in  a  tradesman's  world ; 
In  vain  to  those  your  wonders  are  unfurled 

Who  hold  the  high  thing  cheap,  the  base  thing  dear. 

The  cry  is  gold !  your  priceless  charms  will  only  raise 
a  sneer. 


ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON.  269 


ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON. 

[Born  in  Washington  County,  Pennsylvania,  1850,  but  resides  in 
Frankfort,  Kentucky.  Author  of  Life  and  Love,  published  in 
New  York,  by  Cassell  &  Company,  with  whose  kind  permis 
sion  the  poems  given  are  quoted.] 

LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

ONCE,  in  the  long  ago,  when  Life  and  Love 

Walked  ever,  hand  in  hand  : 
They  came  to  Earth,  from  some  fair  realm  above, 

And  wandered  through  the  land. 

Much  did  they  find  whereon  their  art  to  try, 

For  then  the  world  was  new ; 
They  shook  the  sunbeams  from  the  blended  sky, 

And  steeped  the  ground  with  dew. 

Upon  the  fields  the  emerald  turf  they  spread, 

And  clad  the  hills  in  green  ; 
They  laid  the  meadows  in  the  vales,  and  led 

The  glittering  streams  between. 

Life  lifted  up  the  flowers  throughout  the  land, 

By  woodland,  slope  and  fen ; 
Love  stooped  and  touched  them  with  her  glowing  hand, 

And  they  have  bloomed  since  then. 

Life  taught  the  birds  to  build  within  the  brake, 

And  clothed  each  fledgling's  wing ; 
Love  lifted  up  her  voice,  but  once,  to  wake 

The  songs  which  now  they  sing. 

Thus  ever  hand  in  hand  they  journeyed  on 

From  sea  to  sun-lit  sea  : 
Their  garments  had  the  freshness  of  the  dawn 

That  wakes  the  flowering  lea. 

And  journeying  thus,  at  length  they  found  a  child, 

New-risen  from  the  sod  ; 
Life  frowned,  and  said,  "He  is  a  beast"-  Love  smiled 

And  said,  "  He  is  a  god." 


27o  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Thus  were  their  hands  disjoined,  and  from  the  ground 

Betwixt  these  twain,  arose 
A  dark  and  shadowed  figure — sorrow-crowned, 

And  draped  in  sable  woes. 

Because  that  Nature's  tenderest  demands 

Did  seem  of  little  worth — 
From  henceforth,  Life  and  Love  their  parted  hands 

Shall  join  no  more  on  earth. 

For  this,  the  flowers  shall  haste  to  fail  and  fade, 

The  wood  and  field  turn  sere ; 
And  all  the  songsters  of  the  summer  glade 

Fly  with  the  changing  year. 

Life  lifted  up  the  Child,  and  gave  him  breath, 

And  he  did  walk  between — 
Love  on  the  right — Life  on  the  left — and  Death 

Did  follow,  all  unseen. 

"What  wilt  thou  give,"  saith  Life,  "and  I  will  show 

Thine  eyes  the  path  of  fame, 
And  lead  thee,  so  that  after  years  shall  know 

And  wonder  at  thy  name  ? " 

"  All,"  said  the  Child,  "  that  Fate  shall  bring  to  me, 

And  all  that  Fame  can  give 
To  heart  and  mind,  all,  will  I  give  to  thee, 

If  I  shall  always  live.  " 

But  Love  bent  low  and  gently  laid  his  head 

Against  her  broad,  white  breast — 
"What  wilt  thou  give  to  me?  '  she  softly  said, 

"  And  I  will  give  thee  rest." 

"  Alas  !  "  he  answered.     "  I  am  now  bereft, 

Of  all  I  might  control. 
One  gift  remains — myself  alone,  am  left, 

To  thee  I  give  my  soul ! " 

Then  Love  put  sandals  on  his  naked  feet, 

And,  in  her  tender  care, 
Wove  him  a  broidered  garment — soft  and  sweet — 

Such  as  a  god  might  wear. 


ROBERT  BURNS  WILSON.  271 

She  girt  his  body  with  the  golden  zone 

Loosed  from  her  own  warm  breast, 
And  on  his  lips  the  imprint  of  her  own 

She  passionately  pressed. 

And  in  his  heart  she  lit  the  deathless  fire 

Which  rests  not,  night  nor  day  ; 
But  still  doth  turn  the  soul,  with  fond  desire, 

To  beauty's  path,  alway. 

So  they  did  journey,  and  the  land  was  fair, 

Each  new-born  day  did  seem 
Hope's  inspiration,  as  when  morning  air 

Breathes  from  a  woodland  stream. 

But  Life  began  to  weary  of  the  way — 

Such  fickle  heart  hath  she — 
And  though  Love  urged  with  tears,  she  would  not  stay, 

But- shook  her  fair  hand  free. 

Then  Death  came  swiftly  up,  in  silent  might, 

With  arms  outstretched  and  cold ; 
And  bare  the  child  back  to  the  land  of  Night, 

To  mingle  mould  with  mould. 

But  Love  still  journeyed  on  from  scene  to  scene, 

Sought  still  some  land  of  rest ; 
And  ever  by  her  side  a  soul  did  lean, 

Close  to  her  faithful  breast. 

Long  ages  have  rolled  by,  Earth's  children  find 

Life  false  and  fickle  still ; 
Her  promises  are  fair,  but  she,  unkind, 

Forsakes  them  all  at  will. 

The  path  is  sweet  and  blooming,  still  the  same 

As  in  that  ancient  day  ; 
And  sable  Death  still  follows  hard  to  claim 

The  soul-forsaken  clay. 

And  still  she  lives,  whose  dear,  divine  conti  ol 

Nor  Life,  nor  Death,  can  sever ; 
And  journeying  still,  the  unimprisoaed  soul 

Goeth  on  with  Love  for  ever. 


272  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

MY  LADY  SLEEPS. 

AH,  happy-hearted  bird, 
Full-throated  minstrel,  shaking  all  the  air 
With  golden  ripples  of  thy  passion  pleading ; 
I  tell  thee  true,  my  lady  is  not  heeding ; 
She  lies  asleep,  within  her  window  there ; 

Good  sooth — thou  art  not  heard. 
Thou  living  memory  of  her  kindly  care, 
The  small  white  hand,  which  once  had  gifts  to  share, 
Will  never  hold  forth  morsels  for  thy  feeding 

In  sad  hereafter  days ; 
Nor  pluck  the  roses  by  her  lattice  creeping. 

So  slow  the  curtain  sways, 
Not  strange  it  seemeth  now,  she  should  be  sleeping  ; 

So  soft  the  sweet  air  strays, 

So  fair  she  lies. 
And  in  her  room  the  silences  are  keeping 

A  watch  upon  her  eyes, 
And  with  forgetful  balm  their  light-lids  steeping. 

Lest  she  should  wake  and  rise, 
The  roses  she  last  gathered  now  are  weeping 

Upon  my  lady's  breast ; 
Close  to  the  foam-like  laces  of  her  gown 

Their  silent  lips  are  pressed, 
And  drops  of  dew,  like  fragrant  tears,  slip  down 
Between  the  moveless  snowy  billows  there 
Which  heave  no  more,  for  rapture,  nor  despair. 

Nor  storm  nor  sunshine,  rain,  nor  falling  dew, 
Nor  stirring  leaves,  nor  voice  of  friend  or  foe, 

Nor  surge  of  all  the  worlds  shall  enter  through 
The  stillness  guarding  now  that  slumberer  fair ; 

Whose  heart  knows  now  no  guest, 
Nor  any  ray  nor  shadow,  weal  nor  woe. 

Cease,  cease  thy  song,  sweet  bird,  far  hence,  fly  thou ; 
Where  Nature  keeps 
June-day  revel,  in  fair  fields  new  drest, 
Thy  mate  awaits  thee  there ; 


EUGENE  FIELD.  273 

There  summer  spreads  her  dappled  robes  anew, 

There  bends  the  snowy  crest, 
The  pliant  elder,  where  the  sweet  winds  blow  ; 

There  hangs  thy  nest 
Amidst  the  leafage,  on  some  swaying  bough  ; 

There  happy  thou,  love-blest, 

May'st  soon  forget : — farewell — she  marks  not  now  : 
Thou  canst  not  break  the  calm  which  wraps  her  brow ; 

My  lady  sleeps, 

At  rest !     At  rest !     At  rest ! 


EUGENE  FIELD. 

[Born  in  St  Louis,  Missouri,  2d  September  1850,  but  resides  at 
Chicago.  Author  of  A  Model  Primer  (Denver  Tribune  Pub. 
Co.,  1882);  Cultures  Garland  (Tricknor  &  Co.,  Boston,  1887) ; 
A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse  (Scribner's  Sons,  New  York, 
1890) ;  and  A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Talcs  (Scribner's  Sons, 
New  York,  1890).] 

OUR  TWO  OPINIONS. 

Us  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out — 

Nigh  to  the  age  uv  my  youngest  now ; 
Don't  rec'lect  what  'twuz  about, 

Some  small  cliff' rence,  I'll  allow. 
Lived  next  neighbours  twenty  years, 

A-hatin'  each  other,  me  'nd  Jim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him  ! 

Grew  up  together,  'nd  wouldn't  speak, 

Courted  sisters,  and  marr'd  'em,  too 
'Tended  same  meetin'  house  oncet  a  week, 

A-hatin'  each  other,  through  'nd  through. 
But  when  Abe  Linkern  asked  the  West 

F'r  soldiers,  we  answered — me  'nd  Jim  — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him  1 


274  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Down  in  Tennessee  one  night 

Ther  was  sound  uv  firin'  fur  away, 
'Nd  the  sergeant  allowed  ther'd  be  a  tight 

With  the  Johnnie  Rebs  some  time  next  day; 
'Nd  as  I  was  thinkin'  of  Lizzie  'nd  home, 

Jim  stood  afore  me,  long  'nd  slim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him  ! 

Seemed  like  we  knew  there  wuz  goin'  to  be 

Serious  trouble  f'r  me  'nd  him — 
Us  two  shuck  hands,  did  Jim  'nd  me, 

But  never  a  word  from  me  or  Jim  ! 
He  went  his  way  'nd  I  went  mine, 

'Nd  into  the  battle's  roar  went  we — 
I  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  Jim 

'Nd  he  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me  ! 

Jim  never  come  back  from  the  War  again, 

But  I  haint  forgot  that  last,  last  night 
When,  waitin'  f'r  orders,  us  two  men 

Made  up  and  shuck  bands,  afore  the  fight ; 
'Nd,  after  it  all,  it's  soothin'  to  know 

That  here  I  be,  'nd  yonder's  Jim — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me 

'Nd  I  havin'  my  opinion  uv  him  ! 


LULLABIES. 

LULLABY. 

FAIR  is  the  castle  up  on  the  hill — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 
The  night  is  fair  and  the  waves  are  still, 
And  the  wind  is  singing  to  you  and  me 
In  this  lowly  home  beside  the  sea — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 


EUGENE  FIELD.  275 

On  yonder  hill  is  stqre  of  wealth — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 
And  revellers  drink  to  a  little  one's  health  ; 
But  you  and  I  bide  night  and  day 
For  the  other  love  that  has  sailed  away — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 

See  not,  dear  eyes,  the  forms  that  creep 

Ghostlike,  O  my  own  ! 
Out  of  the  mists  of  the  murmuring  deep ; 
Oh,  see  them  not  and  make  no  cry 
'Til  the  angels  of  death  have  passed  us  by — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 

Ah,  little  they  reck  of  you  and  me — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 
In  our  lonely  home  beside  the  sea ; 
They  seek  the  castle  up  on  the  hill, 
And  there  they  will  do  their  ghostly  will — 

Hushaby,  0  my  own  ! 

Here  by  the  sea,  a  mother  croons 

"  Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ; " 
In  yonder  castle  a  mother  swoons 
While  the  angels  go  down  to  the  misty  deep, 
Bearing  a  little  one  fast  asleep — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 

A    DUTCH    LULLABY. 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe — • 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  misty  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish  ?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  to  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea ; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


276  YO  UNGER  A  M ERIC  AN  POE  TS. 

• 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sung  a  song 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew ; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 

That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea ; 
"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, 
But  never  afeard  are  we  " — 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 
For  the  fish  in  the  twinkling  foam. 
Then  down  from  the  sky  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home. 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be  ; 

And  some  folks  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea. 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three  : 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed  ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be. 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three  — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


GEORGE  W.   W.  HO  UGH  TON.  277 

NORSE   LULLABY. 

THE  sky  is  dark  and  the  hills  are  white 

As  the  storm-king  speeds  from  the  north  to-night, 

And  this  is  the  song  the  storm-king  sings, 

As  over  the  world  his  cloak  he  flings  : 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep  ;" 
He  rustles  his  wings  and  gruffly  sings  : 

"Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

On  yonder  mountain  side  a  vine 
Clings  at  the  foot  of  a  mother  pine  ; 
The  tree  bends  over  the  trembling  thing 
And  only  the  vine  can  hear  her  sing : 

"  Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep — 
What  shall  you  fear  when  I  am  here  ? 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

The  king  may  sing  in  his  bitter  flight, 
The  tree  may  croon  to  the  vine  to-night, 
But  the  little  snowflake  at  my  breast 
Liketh  the  song  I  sing  the  best — 

"  Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep  ; 
Weary  thou  art,  anext  my  heart 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON  WRIGHT  HOUGHTOK 

[Born  12th  August  1850,  at  Cambridge,  Mass.  Author  of  Christmas 
Booklet  (1872) ;  Songs  from  Over  the  Sea  (1874)  ;  Album  Leaves 
(1877)  ;  Drift  from  York  Harbor  (1879);  Legend  of  St  Olaf's 
Kirk  (1880);  and  Niagara,  and  other  Poems  (1882).  The 
poems  given  are  quoted  with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.] 

ANNIVERSAR  Y  HYMN. 

THERE  have  been  nobler  days,  my  friends, 

And  ruddier  skies  than  ours, 
When  men  wrought  deeds,  but  God  the  ends, 

And  faiths  grew  into  powers. 


278  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

There  have  been  loftier  stations  too, 
When  youths  were  souls  of  men, 

Because  they  had  great  deeds  to  do, — 
Greatness  was  goodness  then. 

And  prouder  destinies  have  been, 
When  truth  was  saved  from  harm, 

Smitten,  the  miracles  of  sin 
By  man's  God-muscled  arm. 

Yet  epochs,  stations,  destinies 
Are  not  mere  births  of  time ; 

Sublimely  do  what  in  us  lies  : 
This  is  to  be  sublime  ! 


THE  HANDSEL  RING. 

"  HERE,  0  lily-white  lady  mine, 
Here  by  thy  warrior-sire's  own  shrine, 
Handsel  I  thee  by  this  golden  sign, 

This  sunshiny  thing." 
Weeping  she  reached  her  hand  so  slim, 
Smiled,  though  her  eyes  were  wet  and  dim, 
Saying  :  "  I  swear,  by  Heaven,  by  him, 

And  by  this  handsel  ring  ! " 

But  as  she  bended  her  eyes  abashed, 
Out  of  his  fingers  the  jewel  flashed  ; 
On  the  grey  flags  of  the  kirk  it  clashed, 

That  treacherous  thing ; 

Clashed,  and  bounded,  and  circled,  and  sped, 
Till  through  a  crevice  it  flamed  and  fled, — 
Down  in  the  tomb  of  the  kuightly  dead 

Darted  the  handsel  ring. 

"  Matters  not,  darling  !     Ere  day  be  o'er, 
Goldsmiths  shall  forge  for  thy  hands  a  score ; 
Let  not  thy  heart  be  harried  and  sore 
For  a  little  thing  !  " 


GEORGE  W.   W.  HOUGHTON.  279 

"Nay  !  but  behold  what  broodeth  there  ! 
See  the  cold  sheen  of  his  silvery  hair  ! 
Look  how  his  eyeballs  roll  and  stare, 
Seeking  thy  handsel  ling  !  " 

"I  see  nothing,  my  precious,  my  own  ! 
'Tis  a  black  vision  that  sorrow  hath  sown ; 
Haste,  let  us  hence,  for  dark  it  hath  grown  ; 

And  moths  are  on  wing." 
"  Nay,  but  his  shrunken  fist,  behold, 
Looses  his  lance-hilt  and  scatters  the  mold  ! 
What  is  that  his  long  fingers  hold  1 

Christ  !  'tis  our  handsel  ring  !  " 

And  when  the  bridegroom  bends  over  her, 
Neither  the  lips  nor  the  eyelids  stir; 
Naught  to  her  now  but  music  and  myrrh, — 

Needless  his  handsel  ring. 

Introduction  to  "Legend  of  St  Olaf's  Kirk." 


THE  HARP. 

THEREBY  it  came 

That  Friar  Knut,  the  tutor  of  the  Prince, 
Was  bidden  to  teach  its  chords  ;  and  week  by  week 
With  lessening  weariness  and  growing  love 
Her  deft  hands  learned  to  chase  the  melody 
From  string  to  string  through  mazy  harmonies ; 
Until  the  instrument,  jealous  at  first 
And  obstinate,  became  a  willing  slave, 
Seemed  part  of  her,  and  Yalborg  arid  her  harp 
Were  mouthpiece  of  the  household. 

From  "Legend  of  St  Olaf's  Kirk. 


THE  SONG. 

MELODIOUS  began 

The  prelude,  rich  with  changing  symphonies, 
Sending  the  world  far  spinning  into  space, 


28o  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  lifting  the  rapt  listener  to  a  realm 
Of  peace  and  restf  ulness.     Then  'bove  the  strings 
Arose  her  voice,  first  like  a  far-off  sigh, 
Betokening  love's  beginnings,  wordless  still; 
Now  gaining  confidence,  and,  flushed  with  hope, 
Climbing  to  higher,  ever-gladdening  strains ; 
Till,  -buried  by  the  deepening  chords,  the  voice 
Was  lost  and  all  the  melody  confused. 
There  seemed  vague  wanderings  without  a  goal, 
Beating  of  wings  without  the  power  of  flight, 
A  seeking  for  some  unknown,  needful  thing, 
A  sweeping  of  the  strings  to  find  one  note 
That  ever,  as  she  followed  it,  took  flight ; 
And  when  at  last  it  hovered  within  grasp, 
And  voice  and  harp  arose  in  unison 
To  snare  the  perfect  ending — with  a  twang 
The  string  brake  off,  and  with  a  timorous  cry 
The  note  escaped  and  the  unfinished  song 
Clashed  into  dissonance. 

Ibid. 


GONE: 

WITH  desolate  steps 

She  left  the  bellman  and  crept  down  the  stairs ; 
Heard  all  the  air  re-echoing  :   "  He  is  gone  ! " 
Felt  a  great  sob  behind  her  lips,  and  tears 
Flooding  the  sluices  of  her  eyes  ;  turned  toward 
The  empty  town,  and  for  the  first  time  saw 
That  Nidaros  was  small  and  irksome,  felt 
First  time  her  tether  galling  ;  and,  by  heaven  ! 
Wished  she'd  been  born  a  man-child,  free  to  fare 
Unhindered  through  the  world's  wide  pastures,  free 
To  stand  this  hour  by  Axel,  as  his  squire, 
And  with  him  brave  the  sea-breeze.     Aimlessly 
She  sought  the  scattered  gold-threads  that  had  formed 
Life's  glowing  texture  ;  but  how  dull  they  seemed  ! 
How  bootless  the  long  waste  of  lagging  weeks, 
With  dull  do-over  of  mean  drudgeries, 


ARLO  BATES.  281 

And  miserable  cheer  of  pitying  mouths 
Whistling  and  whipping  through  small  round  of  change 
Their  cowering  pack  of  saw  and  circumstance  ! 
How  slow  the  crutches  of  the  limping  years  ! 

Ibid. 


TAPESTRIES. 

BY  giddy  stairway  led, 

He  sought  his  chamber,  whose  rich  tapestries 
Stiff  with  embroidery  of  silk  and  gold 
Conquered  the  darkness,  making  night  alive 
With  courtly  peacocks,  pecking  from  the  grass 
Topaz  and  pearl  and  sheeny  amethyst, 
White  estridges  with  wind  beneath  their  wings, 
Lithe  tigers  lapped  in  sunshine  tropical, 
And  palm-trees  blotting,  by  their  taper  stems 
And  leafy  mass,  a  heaven  of  sunset  fires. 
But  the  bright  fervour  of  the  figures  blurred, 
As  though  they  flickered  'neath  a  breathing  wind, 
Swaying  the  cloths. 

Ibid. 

ARLO  BATES. 

[Born  16th  December  1850,  East  Machias,  Maine,  U.S.A.  Gradu 
ated  1876,  Bowdoin  College.  Author  of  Patty's  Perversities 
(Osgood  £  Co.,  1881) ;  Mr  Jacobs  (W.  B.  Clarke  &  Co.,  1883); 
The  Pagans  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1884) ;  A  Wheel  of  Fire 
(Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1885);  Berries  of  the  Briar,  poems 
(Roberts  Brothers,  1886);  Sonnets  in  Shadow,  poems  (Roberts 
Brothers,  1887);  A  Lad's  Love  (Roberts  Brothers,  1887); 
The  Philistines  (Ticknor  &  Co.,  1888);  Prince  Vance  [with 
Eleanor  Putnum]  (Roberts  Brothers,  1888)  ;  Albrecht  (Roberts 
Brothers,  1889).  The  poems  quoted  are  published  with  the 
kind  permission  of  Roberts  Brothers.] 

TO  MY  INFANT  SON. 
IN  what  far  land  you  dwelt  before  you  came 

To  this  our  earth,  truly  1  cannot  tell ; 
But  much  I  fear  you  hold  yourself  to  blame 

When  you  reflect,  and  doubt  if  you  did  well 


282  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

To  make   the  change.      What  wild  caprice   did   move 

you 
On  quest  so  rash  as  changing  worlds  to  prove  you  1 

Much  of  that  world  I  wonder,  while  I  try 

Still  to  discover  in  your  speech  or  mien 
Some  clue  its  place  or  sort  may  signify. 

I  surely  something  of  that  land  unseen 
May  gather  if  I  do  but  watch  you  shrewdly, 
Although,  perchance,  I  form  my  guesses  crudely. 

It  must  a  region  be  of  sweetest  clime 

And  wholesome  air  that  one  so  fair  has  bred ; 

It  much  misheartens  me  that  this  world's  grime 

Your  milk-white  soul  should  smirch  ere  all  be  said. 

Brought  you  no  amulet  or  magic  token 

By  which  all  spells  of  evil  may  be  broken  ? 

That  you  were  wise  with  wisdom  of  that  land 
Your  canny  knowingness  full  well  doth  show; 

Though  some  strange  vow  I  cannot  understand 
Has  sealed  your  lips  from  telling  what  you  know. 

No  hint  can  I  beguile  from  your  discretion 

To  give  me  of  its  lore  the  least  impression. 

I  am  assured  by  your  right  regal  air 

You  were  a  prince  therein,  of  sway  supreme  ; 

Sooth,  it  behooves  me  speak  Your  Highness  fair 
Against  the  day  you  shall  your  crown  redeem  ! 

I  pray  consider,  if  at  times  I  thwart  you, 

'Tis  but  that  useful  lessons  may  be  taught  you. 

Belike  from  your  superior  heights  you  deem 
Much  that  I  count  of  weight  but  little  worth ; 

To  you,  no  doubt,  as  idle  fardels  seem 

The  things  men  strive  for  in  this  .surly  earth. 

But  do  not  by  your  former  standards  measure ; 

These  are  the  best  we  know  of  worth  or  pleasure. 


ARLO  BATES.  283 

Had  we  the  wisdom  renders  you  so  wise, 

We  too,  mayhap,  would  all  these  trifles  scorn ; 

Would  hold  earth's  honours  as  the  emptiest  lies, 
Its  gains  as  windle-straws  trampled  forlorn. 

Yet,  certes,  we  already  hold  them  lightly ; 

Sad  were  our  case  to  rate  them  yet  more  slightly. 

Methinks  I  was  a  fool  that  your  sweet  speech, 
When  first  you  came,  I  did  not  strive  to  learn, 

But  cumbered  rather  mine  to  you  to  teach, 

When  surely  yours  had  better  served  your  turn 

If  you  were  minded  any  hints  to  scatter 

Of  the  hid  way  you  came,  or  such  high  matter. 

They  much  must  miss  you  in  your  former  place ; 

It  chills  my  heart  to  think  how  lorn  and  sad 
Would  be  the  home  had  known,  but  lost  your  grace. 

Prithee -consider,  fair  sojourning  lad, 
How  little  able  I  to  live  without  you, 
And  slip  not  back,  even  though  fortune  flout  you. 

Some  time,  it  may  be,  fate  will  be  so  kind 
As  passports  to  us  both  at  once  to  send ; 

And  I  myself  your  guest,  perhaps,  may  find, 
And  watch  you  as  you  debonairly  bend 

To  the  glad  plaudits  of  your  subjects  loyal, 

Half  mad  with  joy  to  greet  their  master  royal. 

Ah,  well ;  if  so  it  fall,  though  I  should  be 
Far  from  the  throne  set  in  the  lower  ranks, 

Yet  I  at  least  your  kingly  state  may  see, 

And  babble  garrulous  to  those  around  of  pranks 

You  played  while  here  incognito  you  tarried, 

And  out  of  sight  your  wings  and  aureole  carried. 

Meanwhile,  since  my  son's  shape  you  deign  to  wear, 
If  I  fall  short  in  aught,  beseech  you,  naught 

Set  down  to  malice.     Since  within  you  share 

A  king's  state  yet,  with  kingly  kindness  fraught 

Be  still  your  thought.     Reflect;  we  both  walk  blindly; 

Then  why  should  either  bear  himself  unkindly  1 


284  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  CHORRERA. 
1790. 

THREE  horsemen  galloped  the  dusty  way 

While  sun  and  moon  were  both  in  the  sky ; 
An  old  crone  crouched  in  the  cactus'  shade, 
And  craved  an  alms  as  they  rode  by. 
A  friendless  hag  she  seemed  to  be, 
But  the  queen  of  a  bandit  crew  was  she. 

One  horseman  tossed  her  a  scanty  dole, 
A  scoffing  couplet  the  second  trolled, 
But  the  third,  from  his  blue  eyes  frank  and  free, 
No  glance  vouchsafed  the  beldam  old  ; 
As  toward  the  sunset  and  the  sea, 
No  evil  fearing,  rode  the  three. 

A  curse  she  gave  for  the  pittance  small, 
A  gibe  for  the  couplet's  ribald  word  ; 
But  that  which  once  had  been  her  heart 
At  sight  of  the  silent  horseman  stirred ; 

And  safe  through  the  ambushed  band  they  speed 
For  the  sake  of  the  rider  who  would  not  heed  ! 


A  SHADOW  BOAT. 

UNDER  my  keel  another  boat 

Sails  as  I  sail,  floats  as  I  float ; 
Silent  and  dim  and  mystic  still, 

It  steals  through  that  weird  nether-world, 
Mocking  my  power,  though  at  my  will 

The  foam  before  its  prow  is  curled, 

Or  calm  it  lies,  with  canvas  furled. 

Vainly  I  peer,  and  fain  would  see 
What  phantom  in  that  boat  may  be ; 

Yet  half  I  dread,  lest  I  with  ruth 
Some  ghost  of  my  dead  past  divine, 

Some  gracious  shape  of  my  lost  youth, 
Whose  deathless  eyes  once  fixed  on  mine 
Would  draw  me  downward  throusrh  the  brine 


ARLO  BATES.  285 


SONNETS  IN  SHADOW. 

XXVII. 

WE  must  be  nobler  for  our  dead,  be  sure, 

Than  for  the  quick.     We  might  their  living  eyes 
Deceive  with  gloss  of  seeming ;  but  all  lies 

Were  vain  to  cheat  a  prescience  spirit-pure. 

Our  soul's  true  worth  and  aim,  however  poor, 

They  see  who  watch  us  from  some  deathless  skies 
With  glance  death-quickened.     That  no  sad  surprise 

Sting  them  in  seeing,  be  ours  to  secure. 

Living,  our  loved  ones  make  us  what  they  dream  ; 

Dead,  if  they  see,  they  know  us  as  we  are ; 
Henceforward  we  must  be,  not  merely  seem. 

Bitterer  woe  than  death  it  were  by  far 

To  fail  their  hopes  who  love  us  to  redeem ; 
Loss  were  thrice  loss  that  thus  their  faith  should  mar. 

XXVL 

As  dying  Roland  to  God  solemnly, 
At  awful  Ronceval,  lifted  his  glove 
Crimson  with  pagan  gore,  must  we,  above 

All  petty  passions,  the  heart  steadfastly 

Hold  up  on  high,  all  bleeding  though  it  be 

From  sorrow's  wounds.     By  memory  of  the  love 
Which  has  been  ours, — though  hope,  like  the  ark's  dove, 

Return  no  more, — all  consecrate  are  we. 

The  heart  which  once  such  love  as  we  have  known 

Has  touched,  for  evermore  is  dedicate 
To  holy  use ;  as  when  some  god  has  shown, 

By  portent  high,  the  stone  decreed  by  fate 

To  be  his  shrine.     No  more  it  is  our  own  : 
It  is  an  altar  where  we  humble  wait. 


286  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


XXV. 

As  some  flame-crooked  venomed  Malay  blade 

Writhes  snake-like  through  a  dusky  woman's  side 
Its  film  of  poison  deep  within  to  hide, 

Does  sorrow  pierce,  life's  inmost  to  invade ; 

While  human  comfort  would  our  hearts  persuade 
That  in  the  hand  of  Time  doth  balm  abide. 
Shall  time  our  hearts  from  the  old  love  divide  ? 

Vain  were  a  hope  could  so  our  faith  degrade. 

What  have  we  left  save  fealty  alone  1 

Shall  we  to  Time  this  jewel  yield,  which  yet 
Vows  of  a  faith  eternal  made  our  own  ? 

The  drop  most  bitter  in  woe's  beaker  set 

Is  doubt  of  our  soul's  firmness  !     He  has  known 
Grief's  sharpest  who  has  feared  he  may  forget ! 

XXIV. 

WHEN  two  souls  have  been  truly  blent  in  one, 
It  could  not  chance  that  one  should  cease  to  be 
And  one  remain  alive.     'Twere  falsity 

To  all  that  has  been  to  count  union  done 

Because  death  blinds  the  sight.     Such  threads  are  spun 
By  dear  communion  as  e'en  the  dread  Three 
Cannot  or  cut  or  disentangle.     Sea 

From  shore  the  moon  may  draw ;  but  two  drops  run 

Together,  what  may  separate  ]     What  thought 

Touched  but  one  brain  ?   What  pulse-beat,  faint  or  high 
Did  not  each  heart  share  duly  ?     There  is  naught 

In  all  we  do  or  dream,  from  lightest  sigh 

To  mightiest  deed,  by  which  we  are  not  taught 
We  live  together  and  together  die. 


GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP.  287 

GEORGE  PARSONS  LATHROP. 

[Born  at  Honolulu,  Hawaiian  Islands,  25th  August  1851.  Author 
of  Rose  and  Roof  tree  (Boston,  1875)  ;  Study  of  Hawthorne, 
Afterglow,  An  Echo  of  Passion  (Boston,  1882) ;  In  the  Distance 
(1882);  Spanish  Vistas  (New  York,  1883);  Newport  (New 
York,  1884) ;  True  (1884) ;  and  Gettysburg,  etc.  The  poems 
quoted  are  given  by  special  permission.] 

GETTYSBURG. 

A  BATTLE  ODE. 

LOVELY  to  look  on,  O  South, 
No  longer  stately-scornful 
But  beaiitiful  still  in  pride, 
Our  hearts  go  out  to  you  as  toward  a  bride ! 

Garmented  soft  in  white. 

Haughty,  and  yet  how  love-imbuing  and  tender, 
You  stand  before  us,  with  your  gentle  mouth, 
Where  clinging  thoughts — as  bees  a-cluster 
Murmur  through  the  leafy  gloom, 

Musical  in  monotone — 
Whisper  sadly.     Yet  a  lustre 
As  of  glowing  gold-grey  light 
Shines  upon  the  orient  bloom, 
Sweet  with  orange-blossoms,  thrown 
Round  the  jasmine-starred,  deep  night 
Crowning  with  dark  hair  your  brow. 
Ruthless,  once,  we  came  to  slay, 

And  you  met  us  then  with  hate. 
Rough  was  the  wooing  of  war  :  we  won  you, 
Won  you  at  last,  though  late  ! 

Dear  South,  to-day, 
As  our  country's  altar  made  us 

One  for  ever,  so  we  vow 
Unto  yours  our  love  to  render : 
Strength  with  strength  we  here  endow, 
And  we  make  your  honour  ours. 
Happiness  and  hope  shall  sun  you  : 
All  the  wiles  that  have  betrayed  us 
Vanish  from  us  like  spent  showers  ! 


288  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  E  YES. 

THE  sunshine  of  thine  eyes 

(O  still,  celestial  beam  !), 
Whatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

Oh  let  it  fall  on  me  ! 
Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

I  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee  ! 

From,  "Hose  and  Hoof-Tree." 


THE  PHCEBE-BIRD. 

YES,  I  was  wrong  about  the  phoebe-bird. 
Two  songs  it  has,  and  both  of  them  I've  heard : 
I  did  not  know  those  strains  of  joy  and  sorrow 
Came  from  one  throat,  or  that  each  note  could  borrow 
Strength  from  the  other,  making  one  more  brave, 
And  one  as  sad  as  rain-drops  on  a  grave. 

But  thus  it  is.     Two  songs  have  men  and  maidens : 

One  is  for  hey-day,  one  is  sorrow's  cadence. 

Our  voices  vary  with  the  changing  seasons 

Of  life's  long  year,  for  deep  and  natural  reasons. 

Therefore  despair  not.     Think  not  you  have  altered, 
If,  at  some  time,  the  gayer  note  has  faltered. 
We  are  as  God  has  made  us.     Gladness,  pain, 
Delight,  and  death,  and  moods  of  bliss  or  bane, 
With  love,  and  hate,  or  good,  and  evil — all, 
At  sepai-ate  times,  in  separate  accents  call ; 
Yet  'tis  the  same  heart-throb  within  the  breast 
That  gives  an  impulse  to  our  worst  and  best. 
I  doubt  not  when  our  earthly  cries  are  ended, 
The  Listener  finds  them  in  one  music  blended. 


GEORGE  PARSONS  LA  THROP.  289 

KEENAN''S    CHARGE. 

CHANCELLORSVILLE,  MAY  1863. 

THE  sun  had  set ; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet; 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where  Stonewall's  corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through  with  angry  tusk. 

"  They've  trapped  us,  boys  ! " 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  Rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate : 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke ; 

Broke  and  fled. 

No  one  stayed — but  the  dead! 

With  curses,  shrieks  and  cries, 

Horses  and  waggons  and  men 

Tumbled  back  through  the  shuddering  glen, 

And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

There's  one  hope,  still — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill! 
"  Battery,  wheel !  "  ('mid  the  roar) 
"  Pass  pieces  ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot  !  "     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "  Trot  " — and  no  more. 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rode  a  form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout : 

"  Align  those  guns  !  " 

(We  knew  it  was  Pleasonton's). 

The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 

And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word  : 


290  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 
But  ah,  the  dread  delay  ! 

"  To  wait  is  crime ; 

O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time  !  " 

The  general  looked  around. 

There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 

With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone — 

Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men  ?  " — 

"Are  soldiers,  General."     "Then, 

Charge,  Major  !     Do  your  best : 

Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed ; — else  the  army  is  lost. 

You  die  to  save  the  rest !  " 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant — clear,  and  cool,  and  still ; 
Then,  with  a  smile  he  said  :  "I  will." 

"  Cavalry,  charge  !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath — 

Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sash'd ; 

Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Penusylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ring'd  with  flame ; 


IR  WIN  R  US  SELL.  29 1 

Rode  in  and  sabered  and  shot — and  fell ; 
Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 
And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 
In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 
Bound  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 
Line  after  line  ;  ay,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons, 
By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and  torn ; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  1 — 'Tis  a  death  salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place ;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain  :  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now — year  following  year — 
Over  their  graves,  the  pine-cones  fall, 
And  the  whip-poor-will  chants  his  spectre-call ; 
But  they  stir  not  again  :  they  raise  no  cheer ; 
They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never  cease, 
Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 
The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 
That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 


IRWIN  RUSSELL. 

[Born  at  Port  Gibson,  Mississippi,  3d  June,  1853  ;  died  at  New- 
Orleans,  23d  December,  1879.  The  poems  quoted  are  from  the 
collected  edition  of  his  poems  published  in  1888  by  The  Century 
Co.,  with  whose  kind  permission  they  are  given.] 

FROM  "CHRISTMAS-NIGHT  IN  THE 
QUARTERS:' 

Go  'way  fiddle  !  folks  is  tired  o'  hearin'  you  a-squawkin', 
Keep  silence  fur  yo'  betters  ! — don't  you  heah  de  banjo 
talkin' 1 


292  YO  UNGER  AMERICA N  POE  TS. 

About  de  'possum's  tail  she's  gwine  to  lecter — ladies, 

listen — 
About  de  ha'r  whut  isn't  dar,  an'  why  de  ha'r  is  missin . 

"  Dar's   gwine   to   be   a'  oberflow,"  said    Noah,  lookin' 

solemn — 
Fur   Noah  tuk   the  "Herald,"   an'  he   read   de  ribber 

column — 

An'  so  he  sot  his  hands  to  wuk  a-cl'a*in'  timber  patches, 
An'  'lowed  he's  gwine  to  build  a  boat  to  beat  the  steamah 

"Natchez." 

Ol'  Noah  kep'  a-nailin',  an'  a-chippin',  an'  a-sawin' ; 
An'    all    de  wicked    neighbours    kep'    a-laughin'   an'   a- 

pshawin', 
But  Noah  didn't  min'  'em,  knowin'  what  wuz  gwine  to 

happen, 
An'  forty  days  an'  forty  nights  de  rain  it  kep'  a-drappin'. 

Now,  Noah  had  done  catched  a  lot  ob  ebry  sort  of  beas'es, 
Ob  all  de  shows  a-trabbelin',  it  beat  'em  all  to  pieces ! 
He  had  a  Morgaw  colt  an'  sebral  head  o'  Jarsey  cattle — 
An'  druv  'em  board  de  Ark  as  soon's  he  heered  de  thunder 
rattle. 

Den  sech  anoder  fall  ob  rain  !     It  come  so  awful  hebby 
De  ribber  riz  immejitly,  an  busted  troo  de  lebbee ; 
De  people  all  wuz  drowned  out — 'cep'  Noah  an'  de  critters 
An'  men  he'd  hired  to  work  de  boat,  an'  one  to  mix  de 
bitters. 

De  Ark  she  kep'  a-sailin'  an'  a-sailin'  an?  a-sailin' ; 
De  lion  got  his  dander  up,  an'  like  to  bruk  de  palin' ; 
De  sarpints  hissed  ;  de  painters  yelled ;  tell  whut  wid  all 

de  fussin' 
You  c'u'dn't  hardly  heah   de   mate   a-bossin'  'roun'  an' 

cussin'. 

Now  Ham,  de  only  nigger  whut  wuz  runnin'  on  de  packet, 
Got  lonesome  in  de  barber-shop    an'   c'u'dn't    stand   de 
racket ; 


1RW1N  RUSSELL  293 

An  so,  fur  to  amuse  hisse'f,  he  steamed  some  wood  an' 

bent  it, 
An'  soon  he  had  a  banjo  made — de  fust  dat  wuz  invented. 

He  wet  de   ledder,   stretched  it  on ;  made  bridge  an' 

screws  an'  aprin, 

An  fitted  in  a  proper  neck — 'twuz  berry  long  an'  tap'rin'. 
He  tuk  some  tin,  'an  twisted  him  a  thimble  fur  to  ring  it ; 
An'  den  de  mighty  question  riz :  how  wuz  he  gwine  to 

string  it  ? 

De  'possum  had  as  fine  a  tail  as  dis  dat  I's  a-singin' ; 
De  ba'rs  so  long  an'  thick  an'  strong — des  fit  fur  banjo- 

stringin' ; 
Dat  nigger  shaved  'em  off  as  short  as  washday-dinner 

graces  ; 
An'  sorted  ob  'ein  by  de  size,  f'om  little  E's  to  bases. 

He  strung  her,  tuned  her,  struck  a  jig — 'twuz  "  Nebber 

min'  de  wedder" — 

She  soun'  like  forty-lebben  bands  a-playin'  all  togedder. 
Some  went  to  pattin' ;  some  to  dancin' ;  Noah  called  de 

figgers, 
An'  Ham  he  sot  an'  knocked  de  tune,  de  happiest  ob 

niggers  ! 

Now,  sence  dat  time — it's  mighty  strange — dere's  not  de 

slightes'  showin' 

Ob  any  ha'r  at  all  upon  de  possum's  tail  a-growin' ; 
An'  curi's,   too,  dat  niggers'  ways  :  his  people  nebber 

los'  'em — 
Fur  whar  you  finds  de   nigger — dar's  de  banjo  an'   de 

'possum. 


NEB  UCHADNEZZAR. 

i. 

You,  Nebuchadnezzah,  whoa,  sah  ! 
Whar  is  you  try  in'  to  go,  sah  ? 
I'd  hab  you  fur  to  know,  sah, 
I's  a-holdin'  ob  de  lines. 


294  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

You  better  stop  dat  prancin' ; 
You's  paw'ful  fond  ob  dancin', 
But  I'll  bet  my  yeah's  advancin' 
Dat  I'll  cure  you  ob  yo'  shines. 

ii. 

Look  heab,  mule  !     Better  min'  'out ; 
Fust'ing  you  know  you'll  fin'  out 
How  quick  I'll  wear  dis  line  out 
On  your  ugly,  stubbo'n  back. 
You  needn't  try  to  steal  up  ; 
An'  lif  dat  precious  heal  up ; 
You's  got  to  plough  dis  fiel'  up, 
You  has,  sah,  fur  a  fac'. 

in. 

Dar,  dafs  de  way  to  do  it ! 
He's  comin'  right  down  to  it ; 
Jes  watch  him  ploughin'  troo  it ! 
Dis  nigger  ain't  no  fool. 
Some  folks  dey  would  'a'  beat  him  ; 
Now,  dat  would  only  heat  him — 
I  know  jes  how  to  treat  him  : 
You  mus'  reason  wid  a  mule. 

IV. 

He  minds  me  like  a  nigger. 
If  he  wuz  only  bigger 
He'd  fotch  a  mighty  figger, 
He  would,  I  tell  you  !     Yes,  sah ! 
See  how  he  keeps  a  clickin'  ! 
He's  as  gentle  as  a  chicken, 
An  nebber  thinks  o'  kickin' 
Whoa  dar  !  Nebuchadnezzah  ! 

v. 

Is  dis  heah  me,  or  not  me  1 
Or  is  de  debbil  got  me  ? 
Wuz  dat  a  cannon  shot  me  ? 


JAMES  VVHITCOMB  RILE  Y.  295 

Hah  I  laid  heah  more'n  a  week  1 
Dat  mule  do  kick  amazin' ! 
De  beast  wuz  sp'iled  iu  raisin' 
But  now  I  'spect  he's  grazin' 
On  de  oder  side  de  creek. 


HER    CONQUEST. 

MUSTER  thy  wit,  and  talk  of  whatsoever 

Light,  mirth-provoking  matter  thou  canst  find  : 
I  laugh,  and  own  that  thou,  with  small  endeavour, 
Hast  won  my  mind. 

Be  silent  if  thou  wilt ;  thine  eyes  expressing 

My  thoughts  and  feelings,  lift  them  up  to  mine : 
Then  quickly  thou  shalt  hear  me,  love,  confessing, 
My  heart  is  thine. 

And  let  that  brilliant  glance  become  more  tender — 
Return  me  heart  for  heart — then  take  the  whole 
Of  all  that  yet  is  left  rue  to  surrender : 
Thou  hast  my  soul. 

Then,  when  the  three  are  fast  in  thy  possession, 
And  thou  hast  paid  me  back  their  worth,  and  more, 
I'll  tell  thee— all  whereof  I've  made  thee  cession 
Was  thine  before. 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

[Bom  at  Greenfield,  Indiana,  1853.  Author  of  The  Old  Swimmin'- 
Hole,  and  'I/even  more  Poems,  by  Benj .  F.  Johnson  of  Boone, 
(1883) ;  The  £oss  Girl,  and  other  Sketches  (1886) ;  Afterwhiles 
(1887) ;  and  Character  Sketches  and  Poems  (1887).  The  poems 
quoted  are  from  Afterwhiles,  published  by  The  Bowen-Merrill- 
Go.,  Indianapolis,  1888,  and  are  given  by  special  permission.] 

THE  SOUTH  WIND  AND  THE  SUN. 

0  THE  South  Wind  and  the  Sun  ! 

How  each  loved  the  other  one — 
Full  of  fancy — full  of  folly — 

Full  of  jollity  aud  fun  ! 


296  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

How  they  romped  and  ran  about, 
Like  two  boys  when  school  is  out, 
With  glowing  face,  and  lisping  lip, 
Low  laugh,  and  lifted  shout ! 

And  the  South  Wind — he  was  dressed 
With  a  ribbon  round  his  breast 

That  floated,  flapped  and  fluttered 
In  a  riotous  unrest, 
And  a  drapery  of  mist, 
From  the  shoulder  and  the  wrist 

Flowing  backward  with  the  motion 
Of  the  waving  hand  he  kissed. 

And  the  Sun  had  on  a  crown 

Wrought  of  gilded  thistledown, 
And  a  scarf  of  velvet  vapoi-, 

And  a  ravelled-rainbow  gown; 

And  his  tinsel-tangled  hair, 

Tossed  and  lost  upon  the  air, 
Was  glossier  and  flossier 

Than  any  anywhere. 

And  the  South  Wind's  eyes  were  two 

Little  dancing  drops  of  dew, 
As  he  puffed  his  cheeks,  and  pursed  his  lips, 

And  blew  and  blew  and  blew ! 

And  the  Sun's — like  diamond  stone, 

Brighter  yet  than  ever  known, 
As  he  knit  his  brows  and  held  his  breath, 

And  shone  and  shone  and  shone  ! 

And  this  pair  of  merry  fays 
Wandered  through  the  summer  days  ; 

Arm-in-arm  they  went  together 
Over  heights  of  morning  haze — 
Over  slanting  slopes  of  lawn 
They  went  on  and  on  and  on, 

Where  the  daisies  looked  like  star-tracks 
Trailing  up  and  down  the  dawn. 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY.  297 

And  where'er  they  found  the  top 

Of  a  wheat-stalk  droop  and  lop 
They  chucked  it  underneath  the  chin 

And  praised  the  lavish  crop, 

Till  it  lifted  with  the  pride 

Of  the  heads  it  grew  beside, 
And  then  the  South  Wind  and  the  Sun 

Went  onward  satisfied. 

Over  meadow-lands  they  tripped, 

Where  the  dandelions  dipped 
In  crimson  foam  of  clover-bloom, 

And  dripped  and  dripped  and  dripped  ; 

And  they  clenched  the  bumble-stings, 

Gauming  honey  on  their  wings, 
And  bundling  them  in  lily-bells, 

With  maudlin  murmurings. 

And  the  humming-bird,  that  hung 

Like  a  jewel  up  among 
The  tilted  honeysuckle-horns, 

They  mesmerised,  and  swung 

In  the  palpitating  air, 

Drowsed  with  odors  strange  and  rare, 
And,  with  whispered  laughter,  slipped  away 

And  left  him  hanging  there. 

And  they  braided  blades  of  grass 

Where  the  truant  had  to  pass ; 
And  they  wriggled  through  the  rushes, 

And  the  reeds  of  the  morass, 

Where  they  danced,  in  rapture  sweet, 

O'er  the  leaves  that  laid  a  street 
Of  undulant  mosaic  for 

The  touches  of  their  feet. 

By  the  brook,  with  mossy  brink, 
Where  the  cattle  came  to  drink, 
They  trilled  and  piped  and  whistled 
With  the  thrush  and  bobolink, 


298  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Till  the  kine,  in  listless  pause, 
Switched  their  tails  in  mute  applause, 
With  lifted  heads,  and  dreamy  eyes, 
And  bubble-dripping  jaws. 

And  where  the  melons  grew, 
Streaked  with  yellow,  green  and  blue, 

These  jolly  sprites  went  wandering 
Through  spangled  paths  of  dew  • 
And  the  melons,  here  and  there, 
They  made  love  to,  everywhere, 

Turning  their  pink  souls  to  crimson 
With  caresses  fond  and  fair. 

Over  orchard  walls  they  went, 

Where  the  fruited  boughs  were  bent 
Till  they  brushed  the  sward  beneath  them 

Where  the  shine  and  shadow  blent ; 

And  the  great  green  pear  they  shook 

Till  the  sallow  hue  forsook 
Its  features,  and  the  gleam  of  gold 

Laughed  out  in  every  look. 

And  they  stroked  the  downy  cheek 
Of  the  peach,  and  smoothed  it  sleek 

And  flushed  it  into  splendor  ; 
And  with  many  an  elfish  freak 
Gave  the  russet's  rust  a  wipe — 
Prankt  the  rambo  with  a  stripe, 

And  the  winesap  blushed  its  reddest 
As  they  spanked  the  pippins  ripe. 

Through  the  woven  ambuscade 
That  the  twining  vines  had  made, 

They  found  the  grapes  in  clusters, 
Drinking  up  the  shine  and  shade — 
Plumpt,  like  the  tiny  skins  of  wine, 
With  a  vintage  so  divine 

That  the  tongue  of  fancy  tingled 
With  the  tang  of  muscadine. 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY.  299 

And  the  golden-banded  bees, 

Droning  o'er  the  flowery  leas, 
They  bridled,  reined  and  rode  away 

Across  the  fragrant  breeze, 

Till  in  hollow  oak  and  elni 

They  had  groomed  and  stabled  them 
In  waxen  stalls  that  oozed  with  dews 

Of  rose  and  lily-stem. 

Where  the  dusty  highway  leads, 

High  above  the  wayside  weeds 
They  sowed  the  air  with  butterflies 

Like  blooming  flower-seeds, 

Till  the  dull  grasshopper  sprung 

Half  a  man's  height  up,  and  hung 
Tranced  in  the  heat,  with  whirring  wings, 

And  sung  and  sung  and  sung ! 

And  they  loitered,  hand  in  hand, 

Where  the  snipe  along  the  sand 
Of  the  river  ran  to  meet  them 

As  the  ripple  meets  the  land; 

And  the  dragon-fly,  in  light 

Gauzy  armor,  burnished  bright, 
Came  tilting  down  the  waters 

In  a  wild,  bewildered  flight. 

And  they  heard  the  killdee's  call, 

And  afar,  the  waterfall, 
But  the  rustle  of  a  falling  leaf 

They  heard  above  it  all ; 

And  the  trailing  willows  crept 

Deeper  in  the  tide  that  swept 
The  leafy  shallop  to  the  shore, 

And  wept  and  wept  and  wept ! 

And  the  fairy  vessel  veered 
From  its  moorings — tacked  and  steered 
For  the  center  of  the  current — 
Sailed  away  and  disappeared  : 


300  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  the  burthen  that  it  bore 
From  the  long-enchanted  shore — 
"  Alas  !  the  South  Wind  and  the  Sun  !  " 
I  murmur  evermore. 

For  the  South  Wind  and  the  Sun, 
Each  so  loves  the  other  one, 

For  all  his  jolly  folly, 
And  frivolity  and  fun, 
That  our  love  for  them  they  weigh 
As  their  fickle  fancies  may, 

And  when  at  last  we  love  them  most, 
They  laugh  and  sail  away. 


KNEE- DEEP  IN  JUNE. 

I. 

TELL  you  what  I  like  the  best — 
'Long  about  knee-deep  in  June, 
'Bout  the  time  strawberries  melts 
On  the  vine, — some  afternoon 

Like  to  jes'  git  out  and  rest, 
And  not  work  at  nothin'  else  ! 

II. 

Orchard's  where  I'd  ruther  be— 
Needn't  fence  it  in  fer  me  ! — 

Jes'  the  whole  sky  overhead, 
And  the  whole  airth  underneath — 

Sort  o'  so's  a  man  kin  breathe 
Lik'  he  ort,  and  kind  o'  has 
Elbow-room  to  keerlessly 

Sprawl  out  len'thways  on  the  grass 

Where  the  shadder's  thick  and  soft 
As  the  kivvers  on  the  bed 

Mother  fixes  in  the  loft 
Allus,  when  they's  company  ! 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

in. 

Jes'  a  sort  o'  lazein'  there — 

'S  lazy  'at  you  peek  and  peer 

Through  the  wavin'  leaves  above, 
Like  a  feller  'at's  in  love 

And  don't  know  it,  ner  don't  keer  ! 

Ever'thing  you  hear  and  see 
Got  some  sort  o'  interest — 
Maybe  find  a  bluebird's  nest 
Tucked  up  there  conveenently 
Fer  the  boys  'at's  apt  to  be 
Up  some  other  apple-tree  ! 

Watch  the  swallers  skootin'  past 

'Bout  as  peert  as  you  could  ast ; 
Er  the  bob  white  rise  and  whiz 
Where  some  other's  whistle  is. 

IV. 

Ketch  a  shadder  down  below 
And  look  up  to  find  the  crow, — 
Er  a  hawk  away  up  there, 
'Pearantly  froze  in  the  air  ! — 

Here  the  old  hen  squawk  and  squat 
Over  ever'  chick  she's  got, 
Suddent-like  !— And  she's  knows  where 
That  air  hawk  is,  well  as  you  !  — 
You  jes'  bet  your  life  she  do  ! — 
Eyes  a  glitterin'  like  glass 
Waitin'  till  he  makes  a  pass  ! 

v. 

Pee-wees  singin',  to  express 

My  opinion's  second  class, 
Yit  you'll  hear  'em  more  er  less ; 

Sapsucks  gittin'  down  to  biz, 
Weedin'  out  the  lonesomeness  ; 

Mr.  Bluejay  full  of  sass, 

In  them  base-ball  clothes  o'  his 
Sportin'  round  the  orchard  jes' 


302  YO  UNGER  AMERICA N  POE  TS. 

Like  he  owned  the  premises  ! 

Sun  out  in  the  fields  kin  sizz, 
But  flat  on  yer  back,  I  guess, 

In  the  shade's  where  glory  is  ! 
That's  jes'  what  I'd  like  to  do 
Stiddy  fer  a  year  er  two  ! 

VI. 

Plague  !  ef  they  ain't  sompin'  in 
Work  'at  kind  o'  goes  ag'in' 

My  convictions  ! — long  about 
Here  in  June  especially  ! — 
Under  some  old  apple-tree, 
Jes'  a  restin'  through  and  through, 

I  could  git  along  without 
Nothin'  else  at  all  to  do 
Only  jes'  a  wishin'  you 

Was  a  gettin'  there  like  me, 
And  June  was  eternity  ! 

VII. 

Lay  out  there  and  try  to  see 

Jes'  how  lazy  you  kin  be ! — 
Tumble  round  and  souse  yer  head 
In  the  clover-bloom,  er  pull 
Yer  straw  hat  acrost  yer  eyes, 
And  peek  through  it  at  the  skies, 
Thinkin'  of  old  chums  'at's  dead, 
Maybe,  smilin'  back  at  you 
In  betwixt  the  beautiful 
Clouds  o'  gold  and  white  and  blue  I— 
Month  a  man  kin  railly  love — 
June,  you  know,  I'm  talking  of ! 

VIII. 

March  ain't  never  nothin'  new  ! — 

Aprile's  altogether  too 
Brash  fer  me  !  and  May — I  jes 

'Bominate  its  promises  ! — 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RTLEY.  303 

Little  hints  o'  sunshine  and 
Green  around  the  timber-land — 
A  few  blossoms,  and  a  few 
Chip-birds,  and  a  sprout  er  two — • 
Drap  asleep,  and  it  turns  in 
'Fore  daylight  and  snows  ag'in  ! — 

But  when  June  comes — clear  my  throat 
With  wild  honey  !     Rinch  my  hair 

In  the  dew  !  and  hold  my  coat ! 

Whoop  out  loud  !  and  throw  my  hat ! — 

June  wants  me,  and  I'm  to  spare  ! 

Spread  them  shadders  anywhere, 

I'll  get  down  and  waller  there, 
And  obleeged  to  you  at  that ! 


WHEN  SHE  COMES  HOME. 

WHEN  she  comes  home  again  !     A  thousand  ways 
I  fashion,  to  myself,  the  tenderness 
Of  my  glad  welcome  :  I  shall  tremble — yes  ; 

And  touch  her,  as  when  first  in  the  old  days 

I  touched  her  girlish  hand,  nor  dared  upraise 

Mine  eyes,  such  was  my  faint  heart's  sweet  distress. 
Then  silence  :     And  the  perfume  of  her  dress 
The  room  will  sway  a  little,  and  a  haze 
Clog  eyesight — soulsight,  even — for  a  space  : 

And  tears — yes  :     And  the  ache  here  in  the  throat, 
To  know  that  I  so  ill  deserve  the  place 

Her  arms  make  for  me ;  and  the  sobbing  note 
I  stay  with  kisses,  ere  the  tearful  face 
Again  is  hidden  in  the  old  embrace. 


WHEN  BESSIE  DIED. 

"  IF  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hands  had  slipped, 

And  ne'er  would  nestle  in  your  palm  again  ; 
If  the  white  feet  into  the  grave  had  tripped  " — 


304  YO  UNGER  AMERICA N  POE TS. 

When  Bessie  died — 
We  braided  the  brown  hair  and  tied 
It  just  as  her  own  little  hands 
Had  fastened  back  the  silken  strands 
A  thousand  times — the  crimson  bit 
Of  ribbon  woven  into  it 
That  she  had  worn  with  childish  pride — 
Smoothed  down  the  dainty  bow — and  cried- 
When  Bessie  died. 

When  Bessie  died — 
We  drew  the  nursery  blinds  aside, 
And,  as  the  morning  in  the  room 
Burst  like  a  primrose  into  bloom, 
Her  pet  canary's  cage  we  hung 
Where  she  might  hear  him  when  he  sung — 
And  yet  not  any  note  he  tried, 
Though  she  lay  listening  folded-eyed. 

When  Bessie  died — 
We  writhed  in  prayer  unsatisfied  ; 
We  begged  of  God,  and  He  did  smile 
In  silence  on  us  all  the  while ; 
And  we  did  see  Him,  through  our  tears, 
Enfolding  that  fair  form  of  hers, 
She  laughing  back  against  His  love 
The  kisses  we  had  nothing  of — 
And  death  to  us  He  still  denied, 
When  Bessie  died — 

When  Bessie  died. 


THE  KING. 


THEY  rode  right  out  of  the  morning  sun- 
A  glimmering,  glittering  cavalcade 

Of  knights  and  ladies,  and  every  one 
In  princely  sheen  arrayed  ; 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY.  305 

And  the  king  of  them  all,  O  he  rode  ahead, 
With  a  helmet  of  gold,  and  a  plume  of  red 
That  spurted  about  in  the  breeze  and  bled 
In  the  bloom  of  the  everglade. 

II. 

And  they  rode  high  over  the  dewy  lawn, 

With  brave,  glad  banners  of  every  hue, 
That  rolled  in  ripples,  as  they  rode  on 

In  splendor,  two  and  two  ', 
And  the  tinkling  links  of  the  golden  reins 
Of  the  steeds  they  rode  rang  such  refrains 
As  the  castanets  in  a  dream  of  Spain's 
Intensest  gold  and  blue. 

in. 

And  they  rode  and  rode ;  and  the  steeds  they  neighed 

And  pranced,  and  the  sun  on  their  glossy  hides 
Flickered  and  lightened  and  glanced  and  played 

Like  the  moon  on  rippling  tides ; 
And  their  manes  were  silken,  and  thick  and  strong, 
And  their  tails  were  flossy,  and  fetlock-long, 
And  jostled  in  time  to  the  teeming  throng, 
And  their  knightly  song  besides. 

IV. 

Clank  of  scabbard  and  jingle  of  spur, 

And  the  fluttering  sash  of  the  queen  went  wild 
In  the  wind,  and  the  proud  king  glanced  at  her 

As  one  at  a  wilful  child, — 
And  as  knight  and  lady  away  they  flew, 
And  the  banners  flapped,  and  the  falcon,  too, 
And  the  lances  flashed  and  the  bugle  blew, 

He  kissed  his  hand  and  smiled. — 

v. 

And  then,  like  a  slanting  sunlit  shower, 
The  pageant  glittered  across  the  plain, 
And  the  turf  spun  back,  and  wild-weed  flower 
Was  only  a  crimson  stain  ; 
D 


306  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  a  dreamer's  eyes  they  are  downward  cast, 
As  he  blends  these  words  with  the  wailing  blast : 
"  It  is  the  King  of  the  Year  rides  past ! 
And  Autumn  is  here  again." 


JIM. 

HE  was  jes'  a  plain,  ever'-day,  all-round  kind  of  a  jour.* 

Consumpted-lookin' — but  la  ! 
The  jokiest,  wittiest,  story-tellin',  song-singin', 

Laughin'est,  jolliest 

Feller  you  ever  saw  ! 
Worked  at  jes'  coarse  work,  but  you  kin  bet  he 

Was  tine  enough  in  his  talk, 

And  his  feelin's  too  ! 
Lordy  !  ef  he  was  on'y  back  on  his  bench  ag'in 

To-day,  a  carryin'  on 

Like  he  used  to  do  ! 

And  any  shopmate  can  tell  you  they  never  was,  on  top 
o'  dirt 

A  better  feller  'n  Jim  ! 
You  want  a  favor,  and  couldn't  git  it  anywheres  else — 

You  could  get  it  o'  him  ! 
Most  free-heartedesb  man  thataway  in  the  world  I  guess  ! 

Give  up  ever'  nickel  he's  worth — 
And,  ef  you'd  a-wanted  it,  and  named  it  to  him, 

And  it  was  his, 

He'd  a'  give  you  the  earth  ! 

Allus  n-reachin'  out,  Jim  was,  and  a  he'pin'  some 

Pore  feller  onto  his  feet — 
He'd  a-never  a-keered  how  hungry  he  was  hisse'f 

So's  the  feller  got  somepin'  to  eat ! 
Didn't  make  no  differ'nce  at  all  to  him  how  he  was  dressed, 

He  used  to  say  to  me, — 

"  You  togg  out  a   tramp   purty  comfortable  in  winter 
time,  a  huntin'  a  job, 

And  he'll  git  along  !  "  says  he. 

*  "Jour,"  contraction  of  the  word  "journeyman." 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  R1LEY.  307 

Jim  didn't  have,  ner  never  could  git  ahead  so  overly  much 
O'  this  world's  goods  at  a  time. — 

'Fore  now  I've  saw  him,  more'n  onc't,  lend  a  dollar,  and 
ha'f  to,  more'n  likely, 

Turn  round  and  borry  a  dime  ! 

Mebby  laugh  and  joke  about  it  hisse'f  fer  a  while — 

Then  jerk  his  coat, 

And  kind  o'  square  his  chin, 
Tie  on  his  apern,  and  squat  hisse'f  on  his  old  shoe-bench, 

And  go  to  peggin'  ag'in  ! 

Patientest  feller,  too,  I  reckon,  'at  ever  jes'  naturely 

Coughed  hisse'f  to  death  ! 
Long  enough  after  his  voice  was  lost  he'd  laugh 

In  a  whisper  and  say 

He  could  git  ever'thing  but  his  breath — 
"You  fellers,"  he'd  sort  o'  twinkle  his  eyes  and  say, 

"  Is  a-pilin'  onto  me 
A  mighty  big  debt  for  that-air  little  weak-chested 

Ghost  o'  mine  to  pack 

Through  all  eternity  !  " 

Now  there  was  a  man  'at  jes'  'peared-like  to  me, 

'At  ort'n't  a-never  a-died  ! 

"  But  death  haint  a-showin'  no  favours,"   the  old  boss 
said, 

"  On'y  to  Jim  !  "  and  cried  : 

And  Wigger,  who  puts  up  the  best  sewed-work  in  the 
shop, 

Er  the  whole  blame  neighborhood, 
He  says,  "  When  God  made  Jim,  I  bet  you  He 
Didn't  do  anything  else  that  day 
But  jes'  set  round  and  feel  good  ! " 


jo8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK. 

[Born  at  Tuskaloosa,  Alabama,  1854.  Author  of  Cap  and  Bells, 
published,  in  ]Sew  York,  by  F.  A.  Stokes  in  1886,  with 
whose  kind  permission  the  poems  given  are  quoted.] 

DOLLIE. 

SHE  sports  a  witching  gown 
"With  a  ruffle  up  and  down, 

On  the  skirt : 
She  is  gentle,  she  is  shy, 
But  there's  mischief  in  her  eye, 

She's  a  flirt ! 

She  displays  a  tiny  glove, 
And  a  dainty  little  love 

Of  a  shoe ; 

And  she  wears  her  hat  a-tilt 
Over  bangs  that  never  wilt 

In  the  dew. 

Tis  rumoured  chocolate  creams 
Are  the  fabrics  of  her  dreams — 

But  enough  ! 
I  know  beyond  a  doubt 
That  she  carries  them  about 

In  her  muff. 

With  her  dimples  and  her  curls 
She  exasperates  the  girls 

Past  belief : 

They  hint  that  she's  a  cat, 
And  delightful  things  like  that 

In  their  grief. 

It  is  shocking,  I  declare, 
But  what  does  Dollie  care 

When  the  beaux 
Come  flocking  to  her  feet 
Like  the  bees  around  a  sweet 

Little  rose ! 


.    SAMUEL  MINTURN  PECK.  309 

A  KNOT  OF  BLUE. 

FOB,  THE  BOYS  OP  YALE. 

SHE  hath  no  gems  of  lustre  bright 

To  sparkle  in  her  hair ; 
No  need  hath  she  of  borrowed  light 

To  make  her  beauty  fair. 
Upon  her  shining  locks  afloat 

Are  daisies  wet  with  dew, 
And  peeping  from  her  lissome  throat 

A  little  knot  of  blue. 

A  dainty  knot  of  blue, 

A  ribbon  blithe  of  hue, 
It  fills  my  dreams  with  sunny  gleams, — 
-That  little  knot  of  blue. 

I  met  her  down  the  shadowed  lane, 

Beneath  the  apple-tree, 
The  balmy  blossoms  fell  like  rain 

Upon  my  love  and  me  j 
And  what  I  said  or  what  I  did 

That  morn  I  never  knew 
But  to  my  breast  there  came  and  hid 

A  little  knot  of  blue. 

A  little  knot  of  blue, 

A  love  knot  strong  and  true, 
'Twill  hold  my  heart  till  life  shall  part, 

That  little  knot  of  blue. 


AN  AFTERTHOUGHT. 

I  WAS  in  the  garden  chatting 
Amid  the  mignonette, — 

She  with  her  snowy  tatting, 
I  with  my  cigarette. 


310  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

I  still  can  see  her  fingers 
Flit  softly  in  and  out ; 

With  rapture  memory  lingers 
To  view  her  lips  a-pout. 

A  happy  sunbeam  glancing 

Upon  a  wayward  curl 
Set  every  pulse  to  dancing, 

And  turned  my  brain  a-whirl ; 
And  when  she  looked  up  shyly, 

I  could  not  help,  you  see, 
But  stoop  and  kiss  her  slyly, 

Behind  the  apple-tree. 

Strange  that  some  mote  for  ever 

Should  mar  the  rays  of  bliss  ! 
Though  conscious  I  had  never 

Yet  won  so  sweet  a  kiss, 
Alas  the  act  of  plunder 

So  gracefully  she  bore, 
I  could  not  choose  but  wonder, 

Had  she  been  kissed  before  ! 


THE  SAILORS  SWEETHEART. 

MY  love  he  is  a  sailor  lad, 

He  says  he  loves  me  true 
For  all  my  wealth  of  golden  hair, — 

Because  my  eyes  are  blue ; 
And  while  he  is  upon  the  sea, 

Whose  raging  billows  roar, 
The  village  lads  come  wooing  me 

At  least  some  half  a  score. 
I  list  to  what  the  laddies  say, 

Of  smiles  they  have  no  lack, 
And  though  I  say  nor  yea  nor  nay, 

I  think  I'll  wait  for  Jack. 


HENR  Y  CUYLER  B  UNNER.  3 1 1 

There's  Donald  and  there's  Robin  Gray, 

Oh  you  should  hear  them  sigh, 
I  smile  at  them  and  only  say 

I'll  answer  by  and  by. 
They  bring  me  trinkets  from  the  fair, 

And  ribbons  bright  like  this  ; 
And  oftentimes  they  humbly  kneel 

And  plead  me  for  a  kiss, 
And  then  I  turn  and  look  away, 

Across  the  billows  black, 
And  softly  to  myself  I  say 

I  think  I'll  wait  for  Jack. 

Ye  bonnie  stars  shine  out,  shine  out, 
Ye  billows  cease  your  war ; 

0  south  wind  rise  and  blow  my  love 
Within  the  harbour  bar  ! 

No"  other  lad  can  woo  as  he ; 

My  smiles  are  shallow  smiles 
For  oh,  my  heart  is  on  the  sea 

Amid  the  western  isles, 
And  though  I  let  the  laddies  woo 

I  give  no  wooing  back; 

1  only  do  as  lasses  do, 

The  while  I  wait  for  Jack. 


H.  C.  BUNNER. 

[Born  about  1855.  Author  of  Airs  from  Arcady  and  Ehewhirc, 
The  Midge,  Short  Sixes,  etc.  The  poems  quoted  are  from  the 
former  volume,  and  are  published  with  the  kind  permission  of 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.] 

THE   WAY  TO  ARCADY. 

0    ,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ; 
Oh,  what's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry  ? 

Oh  !   what's  the  way  to  Arcady  1 
The  spring  is  rustling  in  the  tree — 
The  tree  the  wind  is  blowing  through— 


312  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

It  sets  the  blossoms  flickering  white. 
I  knew  not  skies  could  burn  so  blue 

Nor  any  breezes  blow  so  light. 
They  blow  an  old-time  way  for  me 

Across  the  world  of  Arcady. 

Oh  what's  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 
Sir  Poet,  with  the  rusty  coat, 
Quit  mocking  of  the  song-bird's  note. 
How  have  you  heart  for  any  tune, 
You  with  the  wayworn  russet  shoon  1 
Your  scrip,  a-swinging  by  your  side, 
Gapes  with  a  gaunt  mouth  hungry-wide. 
I'll  brim  it  well  with  pieces  red, 
If  you  will  tell  the  way  to  tread. 

Oh,  I  am  bound  for  Arcady, 
And  if  you  but  keep  pace  with  me 
You  tread  the  way  to  Arcady. 

And  where  away  lies  Arcady, 

And  how  long  yet  may  the  journey  be  ? 

Ah,  that  (quoth  he)  /  do  not  know — 
Across  the  clover  and  the  snow — 
Across  the  frost,  across  the  flowers — 
Through  summer  seconds  and  winter  hours. 
I've  trod  the  way  my  whole  life  long, 

And  know  not  now  where  it  may  be; 
My  guide  is  but  the  stir  to  song, 
That  tells  me  I  can  not  go  wrong, 
Or  clear  or  dark  the  pathway  be 

Upon  the  road  to  Arcady. 

But  how  shall  I  do  who  cannot  sing  1 
I  was  wont  to  sing,  once  on  a  time — 

There  is  never  an  echo  now  to  ring 

Remembrance  back  to  the  trick  of  rhyme. 

'Tis  strange  you  cannot  sing  (quoth  he), 
The  folk  all  sing  in  Arcady. 

But  how  may  he  find  Arcady 
Who  hath  nor  youth  nor  melody  1 


H.  C.  BUNNER. 

What,  know  you  not,  old  man  (quoth  he) — 
Your  hair  is  white,  your  face  is  wise — 
That  Love  must  kiss  that  mortal's  eyes 

Who  hopes  to  see  fair  Arcady? 

No  gold  can  buy  you  entrance  there  ; 
But  beggared  love  may  go  all  bare — 
No  wisdom  won  with  weariness  ; 
But  Love  goes  in  with  Folly's  dress — 
No  fame  that  wit  could  ever  win  ; 
But  only  Love  may  lead  Love  in 
To  Arcady,  to  Arcady. 

Ah,  woe  is  me,  through  all  my  days 
Wisdom  and  wealth  I  both  have  got, 

And  fame,  and  name,  and  great  men's  praise; 

But  Love,  ah,  Love  !     I  have  it  not. 

There  was  a  time,  when  life  was  new — 

But  far  away,  and  half  forgot — 

I  only  know  her  eyes  were  blue ; 
But  Love — I  fear  I  knew  it  not. 

We  did  not  wed,  for  lack  of  gold, 

And  she  is  dead,  and  I  am  old. 

All  things  have  come  since  then  to  me 
Save  Love,  ah,  Love  !  and  Arcady. 

Ah,  then  I  fear  we  part  (quoth  he), 
My  way's  for  Love  and  Arcady. 

But  you,  you  fare  alone,  like  me ; 

The  grey  is  likewise  in  your  hair. 
And  love  have  you  to  lead  you  there, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady  ? 

Ah,  not  lonely  do  I  fare  ; 

My  true  companion's  Memory, 

With  Love  he  fills  the  Spring-time  air; 

With  Love  he  clothes  the  Winter  tree. 
Oh,  past  this  poor  horizon's  bound 

My  song  goes  straight  to  one  who  stands— 
Her  face  all  gladdening  at  the  sound — 


313 


314  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

To  lead  me  to  the  Spring-green  lands, 

To  wander  with  enlacing  hands. 

The  songs  within  my  breast  that  stir 

Are  all  of  her,  are  all  of  her. 

My  maid  is  dead  long  years  (quoth  he), 

She  waits  for  me  in  Arcady. 

Oh,  yon's  the  way  to  Arcady, 

To  Arcady,  to  Arcady, 
Oh  yon's  the  loay  to  Arcady, 

Where  all  the  leaves  are  merry. 

THE  APPEAL  TO  HAROLD. 
HARO  !  Haro ! 

Judge  now  betwixt  this  woman  and  me, 
Haro! 

She  leaves  me  bond,  who  found  me  free. 
Of  love  and  hope  she  hath  drained  me  dry- 
Yea,  barren  as  a  drought-struck  sky; 
She  hath  not  left  me  tears  for  weeping, 
Nor  will  my  eyelids  close  in  sleeping. 
I  have  gathered  all  my  life's  blood  up — 

Haro ! 
She  hath  drunk  and  thrown  aside  the  cup. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  days  ? 

Haro! 

I  made  them  perfect  for  her  praise. 
There  was  no  flower  in  all  the  brake 
I  found  not  fairer  for  her  sake ; 
There  was  no  sweet  thought  I  did  not  fashion 
For  aid  and  servant  to  my  passion. 
Labour  and  learning  worthless  were, 

Haro! 
Save  that  I  made  them  gifts  for  her. 

Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  nights  ? 

Haro! 

Give  me  sweet  sleep  for  brief  delights  ? 
Lo,  in  the  night's  wan  mid  I  lie, 
And  ghosts  of  hours  that  are  dead  go  by  : 


JAMES  BERR  Y  BENSEL.  3 1 5 

Hours  of  a  love  that  died  unshriven  ; 

Of  a  love  in  change  for  my  manhood  given  : 

She  caressed  and  slew  my  soul's  white  truth, 

Haro! 
Shall  she  not  give  me  back  my  youth  1 

Haro  !  Haro ! 
Tell  thou  me  not  of  a  great  judge, 

Haro! 

It  is  He  who  hath  my  sin  in  grudge. 
Yea,  from  God  I  appeal  to  thee ; 
God  hath  not  part  or  place  for  me. 
Thou  who  hast  sinned,  judge  thou  my  sinning, 
I  have  staked  my  life  for  a  woman's  winning  ! 
She  hath  stripped  me  of  all  save  remembering, 

Haro ! 
Right  thou  me,  right  thou  me,  Harold  the  King  ! 


JAMES  BERRY  BENSEL. 

[Born  at  New  York  City,  2d  August  1856.  Died  there,  3d  February 
1886.  Author  of  In  the  King's  Garden  (1886,  D.  Lothrop, 
Boston),  and  a  novel,  King  Cophetua's  Wife,  (published  only 
as  a  serial  in  the  Overland  Monthly,  1883).  The  poem 
given  is  published  with  the  kind  permission  of  the  D.  Lothrop 
Company.] 

MY  SAILOR. 
HE  lay  at  my  side  on  the  eastern  hill, 

My  brave,  sweet  lad  with  the  golden  hair ; 
And  gazed  at  the  vessel  which  seemed  to  fill 

The  rippling  breadth  of  the  harbour  there ; 

The  black-hulled  vessel  from  over  the  sea, 

.  The  white-sailed  vessel. that  came  and  went, 
"  I  am  going  to  sail  away,"  said  he, 

"  To  sail  some  day  to  my  heart's  content ! 

"  I  shall  see  the  waving  of  south  land  palms, 
The  dark,  fierce  fronts  of  the  icebergs  tall, 

And  gather  the  grapes,  as  a  beggar  alms, 

From  vines  on  some  Spanish  convent's  wall." 


316  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Then  he  drew  my  hand  from  beneath  his  chin, 
And  trailed  my  fingers  across  his  lips ; 

"  Yes,  we  both  will  sail  from  this  town  of  Lynn 
In  one  of  those  staunch  old  black-pro  wed  ships." 

So  one  summer  evening  his  ship  set  sail 
And  floated  off  in  the  twilight  grim  ; 

I  heaped  up  the  vessel  with  blossoms  pale 
And  wept  that  I  could  not  follow  him. 

And  I  cannot  say  that  the  palms  are  there, 
Nor  icy  mountains  he  longed  to  see ; 

But  I  know  he  sailed  into  lands  more  fair 
And  stronger  arms,  when  he  went  from  me. 

O,  my  brave,  sweet  lad  !  how  his  angel  eyes 

Will  gaze  out  over  the  ocean  dim 
That  reaches  from  earth  into  Paradise, 

Till  I  set  my  sail  and  follow  him. 


WILLIAM  PRESCOTT  FOSTER. 

[Born  at  Weld,  Franklin  County,  Maine,  20th  August  1856 ; 
graduated  from  Bates  College,  1881.  The  poems  quoted  are  from 
the  Century  Magazine. 

THE  WIND  AND  THE  STARS  AND  THE  SEA. 

THE  wind  and  the  stars  and  the  sea, 
What  song  can  be  sung  of  these  three, 

With  words  that  are  written  in  lines  1 
Ah,  God  of  the  stars  and  the  sea, 
The  voice  of  the  song,  it  should  be 

The  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  pines. 

The  voice  of  the  song,  it  should  be 
The  voice  of  the  coast  of  the  sea, 

Stepmother  and  wrecker  of  ships ; 
As  deep  and  as  hoarse  as  the  tune 
Bleak  Labrador  sings  to  the  moon, 

With  rocky  and  cavernous  lips. 


WILLIA  M  FRESCO  TT  FOS  TER.  3 1 7 

The  wind  and  the  stars  and  the  sea, 
The  Arctic  night  knoweth  the  three ; 

No  other  sojourner  it  hath, 
Save  death  and  these  three  from  of  old, 
To  whose  abode  throned  in  the  cold, 

No  living  thing  knoweth  the  path. 

There  nothing  to  grieve  or  rejoice 
E'er  lifts  up  the  sound  of  its  voice— 

A  world  ere  the  birth  of  a  soul ; 
A  thousand  long  ages  speed  by, 
Still  glimmer  the  stars  in  the  sky, 

Still  whistles  the  gale  from  the  pole. 

Amid  the  unharvested  plains, 

The  blossomless  land  where  death  reigns, 

The  wind  sings  of  doom  and  of  graves ; 
It-  sings  of  the  days  when  the  world 
Shall  crumble  to  sand,  and  be  whirled 

Like  dust  in  the  teeth  of  the  waves. 

Where  ice-mountains  thunder  and  crash, 
Where  frozen  waves  gurgle  and  dash, 

Where  love  never  came  with  its  tears, 
Like  a  lost  world's  desolate  cry, 
Shrills  sea-wind  to  sea  and  to  sky, 

And  only  the  ear  of  God  hears. 


THE  SEAS  VOICE. 


ABOUND  the  rocky  headlands,  far  and  near, 

The  wakened  ocean  murmured  with  dull  tongue, 

Till  all  the  coast's  mysterious  caverns  rung 

With  the  waves'  voice,  barbaric,  hoarse  and  drear. 

Within  this  distant  valley,  with  rapt  ear, 
I  listened,  thrilled,  as  though  a  spirit  sung, 
Or  some  grey  god,  as  when  the  world  was  young 
Moaned  to  his  fellow,  mad  with  rage  or  fear. 


3i 8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Thus  in  the  dark,  ere  the  first  dawn,  methought, 
The  sea's  deep  roar  and  sullen  surge  and  shock 
Broke  the  long  silence  of  eternity, 

And  echoed  from  the  summits  where  God  wrought, 
Building  the  world,  and  ploughing  the  steep  rock 
With  ploughs  of  ice-hills,  harnessed  to  the  sea. 

n. 

The  sea  is  never  quiet,  east  and  west, 

The  nations  hear  it,  like  the  voice  of  fate, 
Within  vast  shores  its  strife  makes  desolate, 
Still  murmuring,  'mid  storms  that  to  its  breast 

Return,  as  eagles  screaming  to  their  nest. 
Is  it  the  voice  of  worlds  and  isles  that  wait, 
While  old  earth  crumbles  to  eternal  rest, 
Or  some  hoar  monster  calling  to  his  mate? 

O  ye,  that  hear  it  moan  about  the  shore, 

Be  still  and  listen :  that  loud  voice  hath  sung, 
Where  mountains  rise,  where  desert  sands  are  blown ; 

And  when  man's  voice  is  dumb,  for  evermore 
'Twill  murmur  on,  its  craggy  shores  among, 
Singing  of  gods,  and  nations  overthrown. 


THE  SILENCE  OF  THE  HILLS. 

THE  windy  forest,  rousing  from  its  sleep, 
Voices  its  heart  in  hoarse,  Titanic  roar, 
The  ocean  bellows  from  its  rocky  shore, 
The  cataract,  that  haunts  the  rugged  steep, 
Makes  mighty  music  in  its  headlong  leap, 
The  clouds  have  voices,  and  the  rivers  pour 
Their  floods  in  thunder  down  to  ocean's  floor, — 
The  hills  alone  mysterious  silence  keep. 
They  cannot  rend  the  ancient  chain,  that  bars 
Their  iron  lips,  nor  answer  back  the  sea, 
That  calls  to  them  far  off  in  vain ;  the  stars 
They  cannot  hail,  nor  their  wild  brooks.      Ah  me  ! 
What  cries  from  out  their  stony  hearts  will  break, 
In  God's  great  day,  when  all  that  sleep  shall  wake. 


CHARLES  LOTIN  HILDRETH.  319 


CHARLES  LOTIN  HILDRETH. 

[Born  in  New  York,  28th  August  1856  ;  graduated  at  the  College  of 
the  City  of  New  York.  Author  of  Oo,  The  New  Sym 
phony,  Judith,  The  Masque  of  Death  (Belford  Company, 
New  York,  Chicago,  and  San  Francisco,  1889).  The  poems 
quoted  are  from  the  last  named,  and  are  republished  by  the 
kind  permission  of  Belford  Company.] 

GHOSTS. 

TWELVE  by  the  chime  :  from  idle  dreams  awaking, 
I  trim  my  lamp  and  mount  the  creaking  stair ; 

The  shadows  through  the  carven  arches  shaking 
Seem  mocking  phantoms  that  pursue  me  there. 

The  faded  portraits  in  the  lamp-light's  glamour 

Look  down  with  cold  inquisitorial  gaze; 
The  scupltured  busts,  the  knights  in  rusted  armour, 

Loom  large  against  the  window's  pictured  maze. 

Thick  dust  falls  from  the  time-worn,  tattered  hangings, 

Thick  dust  lies  on  the  tessellated  floor  ; 
My  step  sounds  loud,  the  door's  sepulchral  clangings 

Roll  far  along  the  gusty  corridor. 

Ah  me  !  amid  my  dwelling's  desolation 
It  seems  some  fable  that  my  brain  recalls, 

That  once  a  glad  and  gallant  generation 

Loved,  laughed,  and  feasted  in  these  lonely  halls. 

Silent  the  voice  of  song,  and  hushed  the  laughter, 
Cheerless  and  cold  the  empty  banquet-room ; 

The  spider  weaves  in  gilded  groin  and  rafter, 

The  shrill  wind  whistles  through  the  vaulted  gloom. 

Vanished  those  dear  ones,  by  what  hidden  highways, 
In  what  far  regions,  o'er  what  stormy  waves, 

I  know  not,  nor  in  what  oblivious  byways 

The  sere  grass  sighs  above  their  nameless  graves. 


320  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  yet,  as  if  my  souls's  imperious  longing 
Were  as  a  spell  unspoken  yet  supreme, 

Pale  shapes  seem  through  the  hollow  darkness  thronging, 
Like  those  wan  visitants  which  haunt  a  dream. 

They  gather  round  me  through  the  silent  spaces, 
Like  clouds  across  the  waning  twilight  blown, 

Till  all  the  room  is  filled  with  flickering  faces 

And  hovering  hands  that  reach  to  wring  my  own. 

With  friendly  greeting  and  familiar  gesture, 
Wearing  the  form  and  feature  that  they  wore 

When  youth  and  beauty  clothed  them  like  a  vesture, 
They  come,  the  unforgotten  ones  of  yore. 

On  cheek  and  brow  I  feel  their  chill  caresses, 
Like  cold,  faint  airs  of  autumns  long  ago ; 

I  hear  the  sighing  of  their  ghostly  tresses, 
The  trailing  of  their  garments  to  and  fro. 

Up  from  the  gulfs  of  time,  the  blind  abysses, 
Those  radiant  phantoms  of  the  past  arise, 

And  bring  again  the  perfume  of  their  kisses, 
The  peril  and  the  splendour  of  their  eyes. 

But  cold  their  lips,  they  breathe  no  warm  affection, 
And  cold  their  breasts  as  frozen  shapes  of  snow  ; 

Their  luminous  eyes  are  but  a  vague  reflection ; 
Stray  starbeams  in  the  ice-bound  stream  below. 

'Tis  well :  nay,  if  by  spell  or  incantation 
The  loved  and  lost  I  might  again  behold, 

Breathing  and  warm  in  youth's  bright  incarnation, 
And  glowing  with  the  loveliness  of  old  : — 

That  word  I  would  withhold,  for  their  sakes  only  : 
Estranged  and  changed  as  in  a  haggard  dream, 

Time-tossed  and  tempest-beaten,  old  and  lonely, 

To  their  young  eyes  what  spectres  we  should  seem  ! 


CHARLES  LOTIN  HILDRETH.  321 

LOVE. 

LOVE  was  primeval ;  from  forgotten  time 

Come  hints  of  common  lives  by  love  made  great, 
In  pastoral  song  or  fragmentary  rhyme, 

While  fades  the  fame  of  many  a  warlike  state. 
Love  lives  for  ever,  though  we  pass  away; 

Still  shall  there  be  hot  hearts  and  longing  eyes, 
Hyperion  youths  and  maids  more  fair  than  they, 

Loath  lips  and  lingering  hands  and  parting  sighs, 
When  we  have  vanished  and  our  simple  doom 

Is  blended  with  the  themes  of  old  romance. 
Ay,  from  our  dust  young  buds  and  flowers  shall  bloom, 

To  deck  bright  tresses  in  the  spring-tide  dance 
And  be  the  mute,  sweet  signs  of  love  confessed 
To  passioned  hopes  upon  a  maiden's  breast. 


THE    TOCSIN. 

WHAT  voice  as  of  the  tempest-trampled  sea, 
What  turbulence  of  terror  and  delight, 

What  organ-peal,  what  solemn  litany 
Clamours  along  the  quiet  aisles  of  night  1 

What  tocsin's  moan  through  midnight  silence  falls, 
What  clash  of  arms,  what  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

While  grimly  serried  on  the  fortress-walls, 
The  spearmen  lean  to  watch  the  coming  foe  ? 

What  is  this  wonder  of  a  thousand  eyes 
That  flashes  far  along  the  ancient  street, 

What  throng  is  this  that  waits  with  mute  sin-mise, 
What  clangs  of  drums,  what  tread  of  marching  feet  ? 

What  banners  blaze  from  roof  and  balcony, 

What  scarfs  from  snowy  shoulders  glimmer  down, 

While — hark  !  the  rending  shout  reels  to  the  sky: 
"  It  is  the  king  who  comes  to  claim  his  own  !  " 


322  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

SONG— THE  VIGIL. 

O  LOVE,  why  wilt  thou  banish  me  so  soon  1 

See  yonder  floats  the  crescent  moon, 

A  shining  boat  becalmed  on  azure  seas 

Among  the  twinkling  Pleiades  ; 

And  not  one  star  has  quenched  its  crystal  lamp 

In  haggard  daybreak's  dew  and  damp. 

No  spectral  glimmer  streaks  the  eastern  skies, 
Night  lingers  still ;  look  up,  dear  eyes, 
Faint  beacons  lit  for  love,  thy  tender  shine 
Betrays  thee  to  no  gaze  but  mine  : 
And  none  can  hear  lips  meeting  in  a  kiss 
So  hushed,  my  sweet,  as  this — and  this  ! 

Why  tremble  so  1     In  slumber  fathoms  deep 

They  lie  who  bid  us  part  and  weep, 

Dreaming  their  sleek  white  dove  in  perfumed  nest 

Sleeps  safe  in  unregretful  rest. 

Let  them  dream  on  deluded,  while  we  wake 

The  long  night  through  for  love's  sweet  sake. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  TIME. 

IN  cloudy  legends  of  the  dawn  of  years, 

Or  sculptured  verse  on  shard  or  shattered  stone, 

The  oldest  lore  is  still  of  love  and  tears, 
Of  wild  dark  wars  and  cities  overthrown,- 

And  blows  and  bitter  deeds  and  mad  defeat, 

Whereof  the  burden  is,  "  Yet  love  is  sweet." 

And  from  all  ways,  where  men  have  dwelt  and  died, 
From  nations  dwindled  to  a  minstrel's  song, 

A  sound  of  voices,  mingled,  multiplied, 
A  rumour  of  delight,  despair  and  wrong, 

Of  sorrows  infinite  and  strange  amaze, 

Waft  down  the  troubled  winds  of  many  days. 


CHARLES  LOTIN  HILDRETH.  323 

Crying  :  "  We  were  love's  votaries  of  old  ; 

Though  dust,  our  immemorial  names  remain 
Embalmed  in  tales  a  thousand  times  retold, 

That  beat  like  echoes  in  the  heart  and  brain, 
Of  stately  strains  through  whose  exultant  flow 
Breathe  parting  sighs,  vain  longings,  utter  woe." 

Crying  :  "  Ten  years  against  the  city's  walls 
The  brazen  waves  of  battle  beat  in  vain, 

And  many  a  widow  wailed  in  Dardan  halls, 
And  many  a  Greek  lay  cold  along  the  plain, 

Till  hapless  Troy  expired  in  blood  and  flame 

And  grew  a  word  for  Helen's  love  and  shame." 

Crying  :  "I  am  Leander,  whom  the  sea 

Spared  to  young  Hero's  arms  a  little  space, 

Then  seized  and  smote  the  life  out  suddenly, 
One  black  and  bitter  night,  before  her  face ; 

But  we  had  loved,  nor  gods  nor  mortals  may 

Efface  the  perfect  past — we  had  our  day." 

Crying  :   "  The  proud,  sweet  mouth  and  subtle  smile, 
The  varying  mood,  the  dusk,  low-lidded  gaze, 

Stayed  my  war-wandering  steps  beside  the  Nile ; 
There,  hand  in  hand,  down  love's  delicious  ways, 

We  walked  to  death,  foreseeing,  unafraid, 

And  passed  from  dreams  to  darkness,  well  repaid." 

But  these  are  intimations  faint  with  time ; 

Hark,  how  from  hearts  that  tremble  and  aspire, 
Albeit  unknown  in  any  poet's  rhyme, 

The  passion-song  leaps  up  like  living  fire  ! — 
"  Travail  and  tears,  wan  brows  and  wounded  feet, 
These  are  love's  sure  award — yet  love  is  sweet." 


324  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


JAMES  BENJAMIN  KEN  YON. 

[Born  at  Frankfort,  N.Y.,  26th  April  1858.  Author  of  The 
Fallen,  and  other  Poems  (Utica,  1876)  ;  Out  of  the  Shadows 
(Philadelphia,  1880) ;  Songs  in  all  Seasons  (Boston,  1885) ;  and 
In  Realms  of  Gold  (Cassell  &  Co.,  New  York,  1887).  The 
poems  quoted  are  from  the  last  volume,  and  are  given  with  the 
kind  permissiou  of  the  publishers.] 


WHEN  CLOVER  BLOOMS. 

WHEN  clover  blooms  in  the  meadows, 

And  the  happy  south  winds  blow ; 
When  under  the  leafy  shadows 
The  singing  waters  flow — 
Then  come  to  me ;  as  you  pass 
I  shall  hear  your  feet  in  the  grass, 
And  my  heart  shall  awake  and  leap 
From  its  cool,  dark  couch  of  sleep, 
And  shall  thrill  again,  as  of  old, 
Ere  its  long  rest  under  the  mold — 
When  clover  blooms. 

Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  waken ; 

I  shall  know,  my  love,  it  is  you  : 
I  shall  hear  the  tall  grass  shaken, 

I  shall  hear  the  drops  of  the  dew 
That  scatter  before  your  feet ; 
I  shall  smell  the  perfume  sweet 
Of  the  red  rose  that  you  wear, 
As  of  old  in  your  sunny  hair ; 
Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  know 
It  is  your  light  feet  that  go 
'Mid  clover  blooms. 

O  love,  the  years  have  parted — 

The  long,  long  years  ! — our  ways ; 

You  have  gone  with  the  merry-hearted 
These  many  and  many  days, 


JAMES  BENJAMIN  KENYON.  325 

And  I  with  that  grim  guest 
Who  loveth  the  silence  best. 
But  come  to  me — I  shall  wait 
For  your  coming,  soon  or  late, 
For  soon  or  late,  I  know 
You  shall  come  to  my  rest  below 
The  clover  blooms. 


QUATRAIN. 

SHE  would  not  stir  a  single  jetty  lash 

To  hear  me  praised;  but  when  my  life  was  blamed 
Her  parian  cheeks  were  kindled  like  a  flash, 

And  from  her  heart  a  sudden  love  upflamed. 


S  YRINX. 

LEAVE  me  to  wither  here  by  this  dark  pool, 

Where  the  winds  sigh  amid  the  shuddering  reeds, 
And  slimy  things  creep  through  the  water-weeds, 

And  snakes  glide  out  from  coverts  dim  and  cool. 

Leave  me,  O  Pan ;   thou  hast  been  made  the  fool 
Of  thy  hot  love ;  go  where  thy  white  flock  feeds, 
And  pipe  thy  ditties  in  the  dewy  meads, 

And  watch  the  silly  sheep  that  own  thy  rule. 

Get  hence ;  I  am  become  a  loveless  thing  ; 

No  charms  of  mine  shall  ever  tempt  thee  more ; 

No  more  in  valleys  green  and  echoing 

Shalt  thou  surprise  and  fright  me,  as  of  yore  ; 

Go,  clash  thy  hoofs,  and  make  the  woodlands  ring, 
But  let  me  wither  here  on  this  dark  shore. 


326  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


THE  TYRIAN'S  MEMOR  Y. 

WHAT  stars  were  kindled  in  the  skies, 
What  blossoms  bloomed,  what  rivers  ran, 
I  know  not  now;  how  wide  the  span 
Of  years  which  dimly  stretch  between 

That  morn  I  saw  the  big  sun  rise, — 
Blinking  upon  the  dazzling  sheen 

Of  banners  in  the  Grecian  van, — 

And  this,  no  tongue  shall  tell,  I  ween. 

On  helm  and  shield,  on  sword  and  spear 

The  sun  shone  down  exultingly ; 

No  Son  of  Tyre  knew  how  to  flee 

Before  the  face  of  any  foe, 
Nor  would  our  women  shed  a  tear, 

Though  face  to  face  with  speechless  woe, 
And  heart  to  heart  with  misery; 

For  fear  a  Tyrian  could  not  know. 

There  came  the  sound  of  clashing  arms, 

Of  catapults  and  falling  stones, 

Of  shouts  and  shrieks,  and  stifled  groans, 

While  men  stood  on  the  crumbling  wall, 
And  recked  not  of  the  dire  alarms, 

But  saw  their  brave  compatriots  fall, 
And  heard  the  crunching  of  their  bones, 

Then  closed  with  death,  unheeding  all. 

I  know  not  how  the  battle  fared, 

Though  Tyre,  "  the  ocean  queen,"  is  dead, 
And  lowly  lies  her  crownless  head, 
Amid  the  ashes  of  her  pyre. 

Few  were  the  warriors  that  were  spared 
The  spear,  the  flying  dart,  the  fire ; 

Into  the  heart  an  arrow  sped — 

My  eyes  were  closed  on  falling  Tyre. 


JAMES  BENJAMIN  KENYON.  327 

I  have  forgot  how  tenderly 

The  olive  ripened  on  the  hill ; 

How  sweetly,  when  the  nights  were  still, 

The  nightingale  sang  in  the  grove ; 
How  soft  the  moon  was  on  the  sea, 

How  low  the  mourning  of  the  dove ; 
For  my  dead  heart  no  memories  thrill, 

Save  the  glad  memory  of  my  love. 

O,  like  the  footsteps  of  the  morn 

Her  footsteps  gleamed  along  the  street; 

Her  shining,  foam-white,  sandaled  feet 

Fell  lightly  as  the  summer  rain 
On  stones  which  grosser  feet  had  worn  ; 

And,  but  my  heart  so  long  has  lain 
In  ashes,  it  would  wake  and  beat 

At  thought  of  meeting  her  again. 

Her  hair  was  dark  as  Egypt's  night : 

Her  breasts  shone  like  twin  nenuphars ; 

Her  brave  eyes  burned  like  Syrian  stars 

That  morn  she  pressed  her  lips  to  mine, 
And  bade  me  forth  unto  the  fight ;          , 

My  blood  shot  through  my  veins  like  wine 
I  felt  myself  another  Mars — 

In  thew,  in  life,  in  love  divine. 

Who  knows  that  on  the  emerald  zone 
Which  belts  the  changeless  azure  sea 
Another  city  yet  may  be, 
More  fair  than  Tyre  ?     Nathless,  I  wis, 
Howe'er  the  phantom  years  have  flown, 

The  wrinkled  world  must  ever  miss 
That  Tyrian  maid  who  gave  to  me 

Her  first,  her  last,  her  farewell  kiss. 


328  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

JOHN  ELIOT  BO  WEN. 

[Born  at  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  8th  June  1858.  Graduated  from  Yale 
University,  1881.  Received  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Philo 
sophy,  1883.  Received  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy, 
1886  — both  from  Columbia  College,  N.Y.  January  1887, 
published  The  Conflict  of  East  and  West  in  Egypt  (G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  N.Y. ).  The  London  Athenceum  said, — "On 
the  whole,  this  is  the  best  summary  of  the  Egyptian  question 
with  which  we  are  acquainted."  December  1888,  Songs  of 
Tail,  by  Carmen  Sylva,  Queen  of  Roumania,  translated,  with 
an  Introductory  Sketch  (F.  A.  Stokes  &  Brother,  N.Y.). 
The  poems  quoted  are  from  the  Century  and  Harper's  respec 
tively.  Died  January  3,  1890.] 

TO   WILDING,  MY  POLO-PONY. 

MY  Wilding,  I  must  leave  thee  ! 

Does  word  of  parting  grieve  thee 
As  it  grieves  me,  thy  master,  fond,  indulgent, 
Who  see  the  softness  in  thine  eye  refulgent 
And  think  a  thousand  thoughts  are  dreaming  there 
As  like  my  thoughts  as  love  is  like  love's  prayer  1 

How  passing  true  thou  art  to  me 

Thy  whinnyings  apart  to  me 
Make  clear.     Thy  kissing  breath  upon  my  cheek 
Is  warm  as  June-time  love,  that  needs  not  speak 
To  set  the  heart  that  beateth  true  a-bloom — 
To  stir  the  sense  to  quaff  the  day's  perfume. 

Thou  art  a  pretty  fellow  : 

Thy  brilliant  chestnut  yellow 
Shines  like  a  changing  silk ;  the  driven  snows 
Have  stained  thy  foot  and  striped  thy  Roman  nose 
A-top  the  neck  thy  bristling  mane  doth  curve, 
And  every  muscle  shown  doth  seem  a  nerve. 

And  every  step  or  motion 

Gives  those  who  see  a  notion 
Of  Pegasus.     Thou  needest  not  his  wings  : 
Thy  dainty  limbs  were  made  for  flights  and  flings ; 
And  if  thy  feet  do  touch  the  earth,  'tis  done 
As  one  would  quickly  kiss,  'twixt  fear  and  fun. 


JOHN  ELIO T  BO  WEN.  329 

If  some  one  now  a  stranger 

Drop  apples  in  thy  manger, 
And  fetch  thee  sugar  in  his  pocket  too, 
Thou'lt  eat — perhaps — and  yet  to  me  be  true, 
Nor  let  the  stranger  learn  the  secret  sign 
That  makes  thee  lift  thy  foot  and  bow  so  fine. 

But  when  I'm  gone,  who'll  ride  thee, 

Caress,  or  even  chide  thee  ? 
Will  other  understand  thy  playful  tricks, 
Thy  curvetings  and  antics,  bucks  and  kicks  1 
Will  other  let  thee  shy  on  loosened  rein, 
And  let  thee  have  thy  head  o'er  every  plain  ? 

And  who  will  drive  thee,  pony, 

O'er  roughish  roads  and  stony  ? 
Ah,  Wilding,  cunning  rogue,  I'll  not  forget 
The  day  I  paid  a  friend  a  friendly  debt 
And  loaned  thee  :  how  thou  brokest  trace  and  rein 
And,  leaving  him,  sped  home  to  me  again  ! 

They  say  that  I'll  forget  thee 

And  never  more  will  pet  thee, 
When  I  have  learned  to  love  some  maiden  fair; 
I  say  that  she  with  thee  my  love  shall  share ! 
If  I  must  love  thee  less  to  love  her  more, 
I'll  love  thee  as  I  love  thee  now  thrice  o'er  ! 

I'll  see  thee  in  the  spring  time, 

For  birds  and  me  the  wing-time 
To  take  the  northwai-d  flight.     Together  then 
We'll  seek  the  lanes,  and  run  and  race  again. 
But,  Wilding-pony,  I  must  leave  thee  now. 
Farewell !     Now  whinny,  lift  thy  foot  and  bow ! 

(From  "The  Century,"  for  January  1888.) 


THE  MAN  WHO  RODE  TO  CONEMAUGH. 

INTO  the  town  of  Conemaugh 
Striking  the  people's  souls  with  awe, 


330  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS, 

Dashed  a  rider,  aflame  and  pale, 

Never  alighting  to  tell  his  tale, 

Sitting  his  big  bay  horse  astride. 

"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Run  to  the  hills  !  "  was  what  he  said, 

As  he  waved  his  hand  and  dashed  ahead. 

"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills  !  "  he  cried, 
Spurring  his  horse  whose  reeking  side 
Was  flecked  with  foam  as  red  as  flame. 
Whither  he  goes  and  whence  he  came 
Nobody  knows.     They  see  his  horse 
Plunging  on  in  his  frantic  course, 
Veins  distended  and  nostrils  wide, 
Fired  and  frenzied  at  such  a  ride. 
Nobody  knows  the  rider's  name — 
Dead  for  ever  to  earthly  fame. 
"  Run  to  the  hills  !  to  the  hills  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain-side  !  " 

"  Stop  him  !  he's  mad  !  just  look  at  him  go  ! 
Taint  safe,"  they  said,  "  to  let  him  ride  so." 
"  He  thinks  to  scare  us,"  said  one  with  a  laugh, 
"  But  Conemaugh  folks  don't  swallow  no  chaff. 
'Taint  nothing,  I'll  bet,  but  the  same  old  leak 
In  the  dam  above  the  South  Fork  Creek." 
Blind  to  their  danger,  callous  of  dread, 
They  laughed  as  he  left  them  and  dashed  ahead. 
"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  hills  !  "  he  cried, 
Lashing  his  horse  in  his  desperate  ride. 

Down  through  the  valley  the  rider  passed, 
Shouting  and  spurring  his  horse  on  fast ; 
But  not  so  fast  did  the  rider  go 
As  the  raging,  roaring,  mighty  flow 
Of  the  million  feet  and  the  millions  more 
Of  water  whose  fury  he  fled  before. 
On  he  went  and  on  it  came, 
The  flood  itself  a  very  flame 


CHARLES  HENR  Y  L UDERS.  331 

Of  surging,  swirling,  seething  tide, 

Mountain  high  and  torrents  wide. 

God  alone  could  measure  the  force 

Of  the  Conemaugh  flood  in.  its  V-shaped  course. 

Behind  him  were  buried  under  the  flood 

Conemaugh  town  and  all  who  stood 

Jeering  there  at  the  man  who  cried : 

"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain-side  ! " 

On  he  sped  in  his  fierce,  wild  ride : 

"  Run  to  the  hills  !  to  the  hills  ! "  he  cried. 

Nearer,  nearer  came  the  roar 

Horse  and  rider  fled  before. 

Dashing  along  the  valley  ridge 

They  came  at  last  to  the  railroad  bridge. 

The  big  horse  stood,  the  rider  cried  : 

"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain-side  ! 

Then  plunged  across,  but  not  before 

The  mighty,  merciless,  mountain  roar 

Struck  the  bridge  and  swept  it  away, 

Like  a  bit  of  straw  or  a  wisp  of  hay. 

But  over  and  under  and  through  that  tide 

The  voice  of  the  unknown  rider  cried  : 

"  Run  to  the  hills  !  to  the  hills  ! "  it  cried  ; 

"  Run  for  your  lives  to  the  mountain-side  !  " 


CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS. 

[Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  25th  June  1858.  Author  of 
Hallo,  My  Fancy  !  published  in  conjunction  with  S.  Decatur 
Smith,  jun.  (Philadelphia,  D.  M'Kay,  1887).  The  poem  quoted 
is  from  Scribncr's  Magazine.} 

THE  DEAD  NYMPH. 

A    FANTASY. 

FLORA,  the  nymph,  is  dead. 
She  of  the  down-dropt  head  ; 
She  of  the  eye  half  hid 
Under  its  fringed  lid; 


332  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

She  of  the  lily  throat 
That  never  again  shall  float 
Like  a  lily  over  her  breast. 
Never  shall  seem  to  rest 
Like  the  lilies  that  fall  and  rise 
O'er  calms  reflecting  the  skies, 
As  her  bosom — free  from  leaven 
Of  earth — reflected  Heaven. 


Never  again  shall  he, 

The  dreamer,  the  child  of  song, 

Gliding  at  eve  along 

The  still  lake's  margent,  see 

As  he  dips  his  shallop's  oars 

Close  by  the  mirrored  shores, 

Her  shadowy  form  of  grace 

Slip  from  its  hiding  place 

In  the  gloom  of  sheltering  ferns 

Into  an  open  space 

Where  the  moon's  white  radiance  burns; 

Nor,  as  a  fawn  that  turns 

Its  delicate  head  to  sniff 

An  instant  longer  the  scent 

With  the  sweet  wood-zephyrs  blent, 

Ere  it  bounds  away  like  a  whiff 

Of  wind-blown  mist  thro'  the  trees, 

Will  she  wait  for  him,  while  the  breeze 

Plays  with  the  glistening  strands 

Of  her  hair,  as  she  curves  her  hands 

Over  her  questioning  eyes, 

Love-lit  with  a  shy  surprise. 

Never  again  with  lute 
And  love-song  sweetly  sung, 
Will  he  lure  her  from  among 
The  forest  cloisters  mute  ; 
Nor  from  the  shadowy  shore, 
With  songs,  will  he  row  her  o'er 


CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS.       333 

The  cool,  moon-whitened  calm 

Unto  the  sheltered  coves 

O'ei-hung  by  blossoming  groves 

Of  the  shell-girt  isles  of  balm  ; 

Not  evermore  again 

Will  she  visit  the  world  of  men; 

Nor  is  there  any  stave 

Can  call  her  back  from  the  grave, 

Nor  ever  a  madrigal 

Can  pass  her  beneath  the  pall 

Unto  the  pain  and  strife 

Which  living  men  call  Life  ! 

Yet,  in  his  d reams  and  songs, 

She  is  not  dead  to  him  : 

Not  all  in  vain  he  longs 

For  her  presence  in  the  dim 

Green  glooms  of  the  ancient  wood ; 

For  Heaven,  has  found  it  good 

To  turn  forever  the  sting 

Of  sorrow  from  hearts  that  sing. 

And  all  day  long  he  treads 

The  forest's  whispering  aisles  ; 

And  the  checkered  sunlight  sheds 

Its  glow  o'er  a  face  that  smiles, 

Smiles  as  he  softly  strays 

Under  the  leafy  haze, 

Whispering,  "  She  is  here, 

Death  could  not  wound  my  dear. 

Listen  !  you  say  a  thrush 

With  wild  song  breaks  the  hush  ; 

I  say  it  is  she — my  love — 

Singing  in  yonder  grove. 

'Tis  she  !  I  say ;  for  she  said, 

One  night  when  her  fair,  bright  head 

Lay  on  my  breast,  '  My  own, 

If  ever  thou'rt  left  alone, 

Think  not  that  thy  love  is  dead, 

But  look  till  thou  find'st  the  red 


334  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Wild  rose,  and  say  "  Tis  her  cheek." 

Then  kiss  it  close ;  and  seek — 

Where  the  clear  dew  never  dries — 

Blue  violets  for  mine  eyes; 

Then,  would'st  thou  kiss  my  lips, 

The  bee  -will  lead  where  he  sips; 

Sapphires  will  clasp  my  throat 

Where  water-lilies  float; 

My  hands  will  be  the  air 

Caressing  thy  forehead  fair, 

And  oft,  when  the  rain-drops  beat 

The  leaves,  thou  wilt  hear  my  feet 

Leading  the  murmuring  shower 

Away  from  thy  sylvan  bower.' 

Thus  did  she  speak,  and  then 

Faded  from  earthly  ken 

Out  of  the  arms  that  clasped 

Her  form,  and  my  hands  but  grasped 

This  robe  upon  either  side. 

My  arms  were  locked  on  the  breast 

That  her  golden  hair  had  prest, 

And  thus  did  I  lose  my  bride  !  " 

Still  through  the  haunted  aisles 
Of  the  wood,  and  at  its  edge 
Where  the  ripples  stir  the  sedge, 
This  dreamer  walks,  and  smiles 
On  the  violet  and  the  rose, 
And  the  lily's  calm  repose; 
And  you  who  have  heard  his  song, 
And  the  fantasies  which  throng 
Its  burden,  may  know  with  me 
That  the  maiden  was  Purity, 
And  the  lover  a  sullied  soul 
That  saw,  in  the  scented  flowers, 
Emblems  of  hallowed  hours — 
Of  the  Innocence  that  stole 
Unto  its  God  when  Sin — 
The  Dark  Guest — entered  in  ! 


RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON.  335 


RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON. 

[Bora  at  Hartford,  Connecticut,  14th  March  1859.  Graduated  at 
the  Johns  Hopkins  University.  The  poems  quoted  are  from  the 
Century  and  Harper's  Magazine.] 


THE    CITY. 

THEY  do  neither  plight  nor  wed 

In  the  City  of  the  dead, 

In  the  city  where  they  sleep  away  the  hours ; 

But  they  lie,  while  o'er  them  range 

Winter-blight  and  summer-change, 

And  a  hundred  happy  whisperings  of  flowers. 

No,  they  neither  wed  nor  plight, 

And  the  day  is  like  the  night, 

For  their  vision  is  of  other  kind  than  ours. 

They  do  neither  sing  nor  sigh, 

In  that  burgh  of  by  and  by 

Where  the  streets  have  grasses  growing  cool  and  long ; 

But  they  rest  within  their  bed, 

Leaving  all  their  thoughts  unsaid, 

Deeming  silence  better  far  than  sob  or  song. 

No,  they  neither  sigh  nor  sing, 

Though  the  robin  be  a-wing, 

Though  the  leaves  of  autumn  march  a  million  strong. 

There  is  only  rest  and  peace 

In  the  City  of  Surcease 

From  the  failings  and  the  waitings  'neath  the  Sun, 

And  the  wings  of  the  swift  years 

Beat  but  gently  o'er  the  biers, 

Making  music  to  the  sleepers  every  one. 

There  is  only  peace  and  rest ; 

But  to  them  it  seemeth  best, 

For  they  lie  at  ease  and  know  that  life  is  done. 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

APPRISALS. 

I  HAKE  apprisal  of  the  maiden  moon 
For  what  she  is  to  me  : 

Not  a  great  globe  of  cheerless  stone 

That  hangs  in  awful  space  alone, 
And  ever  so  to  be ; 

But  just  the  rarest  orb, 

The  very  fairest  orb, 

The  star  most  lovely-wise 

In  all  the  dear  night-skies  ! 

So  thou  to  me,  O  jestful  girl  of  June  ! 

I  have  no  will  to  hear 
Cold  calculations  of  thy  worth 
Summed  up  in  beauty,  brain,  and  birth 

Such  coldly  strike  mine  ear. 
Thou  art  the  rarest  one, 
The  very  fairest  one, 
The  soul  most  lovely-wise 
That  ever  looked  through  eyes  ! 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 

THE  song  of  the  sea  was  an  ancient  song 
In  the  days  when  the  earth  was  young : 
The  waves  were  gossiping  loud  and  long 
Ere  mortals  had  found  a  tongue : 
The  heart  of  the  waves  with  wrath  was  wrung 
Or  soothed  to  a  siren  strain, 
As  they  tossed  the  primitive  isles  among. 
Or  slept  in  the  open  main. 
Such  was  the  song  and  its  changes  free, 
Such  was  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  took  a  human  tone 
In  the  days  of  the  coming  of  man ; 
A  mournfuler  meaning  swelled  her  moan, 
And  fiercer  her  riots  ran  : 


FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN.  337 

Because  that  her  stately  voice  began 
To  speak  of  our  human  woes ; 
With  music  mighty  to  grasp  and  span 
Life's  tale  and  its  passion-throes. 
Such  was  the  song  as  it  grew  to  be, 
Such  was  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  was  a  hungry  sound 
As  the  human  years  unrolled ; 

For  the  notes  were  hoarse  with  the  doomed  and  drowned, 
Or  choked  with  a  shipwreck's  gold  : 
Till  it  seemed  no  dirge  above  the  mould 
So  sorry  a  story  said, 
As  the  midnight  cry  of  the  waters  old 
Calling  above  their  dead. 
Such  is  the  song  and  its  threnody, 
Such  is  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  is  a  wondrous  lay, 

For  it  mirrors  human  life : 

It  is  grave  and  great  as  the  judgment-day, 

It  is  torn  with  the  thought  of  strife  : 

Yet  under  the  stars  it  is  smooth,  and  rife 

With  love-lights  everywhere, 

When  the  sky  has  taken  the  deep  to  wife 

And  their  wedding  day  is  fair — 

Such  is  the  ocean's  mystery, 

Such  is  the  song  of  the  sea. 


FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 

[Born  at  Peekskill,  N.Y.,  6th  May  1860.  Author  of  Madrigah 
and  Catches,  1887,  New  York,  F.  A.  Stokes  &  Co.  ;  Lyrics  for 
a  Lute,  1890,  Boston,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  The  poems, 
quoted  by  special  permission,  are  from  the  former.] 

DA  WN  AND  DUSK. 

i. 
SLENDER  strips  of  crimson  sky 

Near  the  dim  horizon  lie, 
Shot  across  with  golden  bins 
Reaching  to  the  fading  stars  ; 
v 


338  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Soft  the  balmy  west  wind  blows 
Wide  the  portals  of  the  rose ; 
Smell  of  dewy  pine  and  fir, 
Lisping  leaves  and  vines  astir ; 
On  the  borders  of  the  dark 
Gayly  sings  the  meadow-lark, 
Bidding  all  the  birds  assemble, — 
Hark,  the  welkin  seems  to  tremble  ! 
Suddenly  the  sunny  gleams 
Break  the  poppy-fettered  dreams, — 

Dreams  of  Pan,  with  two  feet  cloven, 
Piping  to  the  nymph  and  faun, 

Who,  with  wreaths  of  ivy  woven, 
Nimbly  dance  to  greet  the  dawn. 

n. 

Shifting  shadows  indistinct ; 

Leaves  and  branches,  crossed  and  linked, 

Cling  like  children,  and  embrace, 

Frightened  at  the  moon's  pale  face. 

In  the  gloomy  woods  begins 

Noise  of  insect  violins  ; 

Swarms  of  fireflies  flash  their  lamps 

In  their  atmospheric  camps, 

And  the  sad  voiced  whip-poor-will 

Echoes  back  from  hill  to  hill, 

Liquid  clear  above  the  crickets 

Chirping  in  the  thorny  thickets; 

Weary  eyelids,  eyes  that  weep, 

Wait  the  magic  touch  of  sleep ; 

While  the  dew,  in  silence  falling, 
Fills  the  air  with  scent  of  musk, 

And  this  lonely  night-bird,  calling, 
Drops  a  note  down  through  the  dusk. 


FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN.  339 


ON  SOME  BUTTERCUPS. 

A  LITTLE  way  below  her  chin, 

Caught  in  her  bosom's  snowy  hem, 

Some  buttercups  are  fastened  in, — 
Ah,  how  I  envy  them  ! 

They  do  not  miss  their  meadow  place, 
Nor  are  they  conscious  that  their  skies 

Are  not  the  heavens,  but  her  face, 
Her  hair,  and  mild  blue  eyes. 

There  in  the  downy  meshes  pinned, 
Such  sweet  illusions  haunt  their  rest, 

They  think  her  breath  the  fragrant  wind, 
And  tremble  on  her  breast ; 

As  if,  close  to  her  heart,  they  heard 

A  captive  secret  slip  its  cell, 
And  with  desire  were  sudden  stirred 

To  find  a  voice  and  tell ! 


BACCHUS. 

LISTEN  to  the  tawny  thief 
Hid  behind  the  waxen  leaf, 
Growling  at  his  fairy  host, 
Bidding  her  with  angry  boast 
Fill  his  cup  with  wine  distilled 
From  the  dew  the  dawn  has  spilled 
Stored  away  in  golden  casks 
Is  the  precious  draught  he  asks. 

Who, — who  makes  this  mimic  din 
In  this  mimic  meadow  inn, 
Sings  in  such  a  drowsy  note, 
Wears  a  golden  belted  coat ; 


340  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Loiters  in  the  dainty  room 
Of  this  tavern  of  perfume ; 
Dares  to  linger  at  the  cup 
Till  the  yellow  sun  is  up  1 

Bacchus,  'tis,  come  back  again 
To  the  busy  haunts  of  men  ; 
Garlanded  and  gaily  dressed, 
Bands  of  gold  about  his  breast ; 
Straying  from  his  paradise, 
Having  pinions  angel-wise, — 
'Tis  the  honey-bee,  who  goes 
Revelling  within  a  rose  ! 


A  MADRIGAL. 

ALL  the  world  is  bright, 

All  my  heart  is  merry, 
Violets  and  roses  red, 

Sparkling  in  the  dew  : 
Brow — the  lily's  white ; 

Lip — the  crimson  berry  ; 
Hark,  I  hear  a  lightsome  tread, — 

Ah,  my  love,  'tis  you  ! 

Wing  to  me,  birds,  and  sing  to  me  : 

None  so  happy  as  I ! 
Only  the  merriest  melodies  bring  to  me 

When  my  beloved  is  by. 

All  the  air  is  sweet, 

All  my  heart  is  quiet, 
Fleecy  clouds  on  breezes  warm 

Floating  far  above : 
Eye — where  soft  lights  meet , 

Cheek — where  roses  riot ; 
Look,  I  see  a  gracious  form — 

Ah  'tis  you,  my  love  ! 


FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN.  341 

Wing  to  her,  birds,  and  sing  to  her ; 

None  so  happy  as  she  ! 
Only  the  merriest  melodies  bring  to  her, — 

Only  this  message  from  me  ! 


A  BETROTHAL. 

"I  LOVE  you,"  he  whispered  low, 
In  joy,  for  a  moment  bold ; 

And  suddenly,  white  as  snow, 
The  warm  little  hand  grew  cold. 

"  I  love  you,"  again  he  said, 

And  touched  the  soft  finger-tips; 

Rut  shyly  she  bent  her  head, 
To  hide  the  two  trembling  lips. 

"  I  love  you," — she  turned  her  face, 
His  heart  overfilled  with  fear ; 

When  lo,  on  her  cheek  the  trace 
Of  one  tiny  passion-tear  ! 

"  I  love  you,"  he  gently  spoke, 

And  kissed  her,  sweet,  tearful-eyed  ; 

The  rose-blossom  fetters  broke  ; 
"I  love  you,  too,"  they  replied. 


A  PERSIAN  DANCING  GIRL. 

JASMINE'S  tangled  in  her  hair — 
Ebon  hair  loosely  hangs 
Looped  with  silver  serpent  fangs, 

Swaying  in  the  scented  air. 

Silken  sandals  on  her  feet — 
Tiny  feet  that  trip  in  time 
To  the  tambourine,  and  rhyme 

With  the  tinkling  music  sweet. 


342  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

On  her  olive-tinted  breast, 

Turquoise  trinkets,  jewels,  rings — 
Lovers'  tokens — gifts  from  kings, 

Jingle  gayly,  never  rest. 

Now  she  gives  a  dizzy  twirl 
To  the  measure  of  the  dance — 
Quicker  than  a  stolen  glance 

Glides  the  dainty,  graceful  girl. 

Just  beyond  the  eager  throng, 
Lazily  her  lover  smokes 
With  his  rivals,  telling  jokes 

Spiced  with  strains  of  Persian  song. 

Idly  waiting, — well  he  knows 
How  they  hate  him,  every  one. 
In  the  garden  of  the  Sun 

He  has  plucked  the  fairest  rose. 


CLINTON   SCOLLARD. 

[Born  at  Clinton,  N.Y.,  18th  September  1860.  Author  of  Pic 
tures  in  Song  (New  York,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  1884) ;  With 
Heed  and  Lyre  (Boston,  D.  Lothrop  &  Co.,  1886);  Old  and 
New  World  Lyrics  (New  York,  F.  A.  Stokes  &  Co.,  1888).  The 
poems  given  are  all  quoted  by  special  permission.] 

AS  I  CAME  DO  WN  FROM  LEBANON. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 

Came  winding,  wandering  slowly  down 
Through  mountain  passes  bleak  and  brown, 

The  cloudless  day  was  well-nigh  done. 

The  city,  like  an  opal  set 

In  emerald,  showed  each  minaret 

Afire  with  radiant  beams  of  sun, 
And  glistened  orange,  fig  and  lime, 
Where  song-birds  made  melodious  chime, 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD.  343 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
Like  lava  in  the  dying  glow, 
Through  olive  orchards  far  below 
I  saw  the  murmuring  river  run ; 
And  'neath  the  wall  upon  the  sand 
Swart  sheiks  from  distant  Samarcand, 
With  precious  spices  they  had  won, 
Lay  long  and  languidly  in  wait 
Till  they  might  pass  the  guarded  gate, 
As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon, 
I  saw  strange  men  from  lands  afar 
In  mosque  and  square  and  gay  bazaar, 

The  Mazi  that  the  Moslem  shun, 

And  grave  Effendi  from  Stamboul 

Who  sherbet  sipped  in  corners  cool; 

And,  from  the  balconies  o'errun 

With  roses,  gleamed  the  eyes  of  those 
Who  dwell  in  still  seraglios, 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon 

The  flaming  flower  of  day-time  died, 
And  night,  arrayed  as  is  a  bride 

Of  some  great  king  in  garments  spun 

Of  purple  and  the  finest  gold, 

Out-bloomed  in  glories  manifold  ; 

Until  the  moon,  above  the  dun 

And  darkening  desert,  void  of  shade, 
Shone  like  a  keen  Damascus  blade, 

As  I  came  down  from  Lebanon. 


THE  HUNTER. 

THROUGH  dewy  glades  ere  morn  is  high, 
When  fleecy  cloud-ships  sail  the  sky, 

With  buoyant  step  and  gun  a-shoulder 
And  song  on  lip  he  wanders  by. 


344  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

He  feels  the  cool  air  fan  his  brow, 
He  scents  the  spice  of  pine-tree  bough, 

And  lists,  from  moss-encrusted  bowlder, 
The  thrush  repeat  her  matin  vow. 

Afar  he  hears  the  ringing  horn, 
And,  from  the  rustling  fields  of  corn, 

The  harvest  music  welling  over, 
Greeting  the  autumn  day,  new-born. 

In  pendant  purple  globes  he  sees 
The  wild  grapes  hang  amid  the  trees, 

And,  from  the  last  red  buds  of  clover, 
The  darting  flight  of  golden  bees. 

He  marks  the  fiery  crimson  gleam 
On  wide  primeval  woods,  that  seem 

Like  armored  hosts  with  banners  flying 
That  march  when  weary  warriors  dream. 

Before  him  long-eared  rabbits  pass 

Like  shadows  through  the  aisles  of  grass  ; 

From  copses,  wren  to  wren  replying, 
Utter  for  him  a  morning  mass. 

He  does  not  heed  the  partridge's  drum, 
The  squirrel's  chattering,  nor  the  hum 

Of  myriad  noises  that,  incessant, 
Down  dusky  forest  arches  come. 

He  crosses  quiet  nooks  of  shade, 
With  flickering  sunlight  interlaid, 

Where,  when  outshines  the  silver  crescent 
Flit  by  the  pixies,  half  afraid. 

Thus  on  and  on  he  blithely  speeds, 
Through  briery  brake  and  tangled  reeds, 

Thinking  of  Robin  and  his  bowmen 
And  all  the  archer's  daring  deeds ; 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD.  345 

Till  'neath  a  slope  by  vines  o'ergrown, 
Where,  in  the  ages  that  have  flown, 

The  red  men  slew  their  swarthy  foemen, 
He  stands  beside  a  pool  alone. 

Deep  in  the  thicket,  dense  and  dim, 
That  skirts  the  water's  rushy  rim, 

He  crouches  low  and  keenly  listens 
For  sound  of  hoof  or  stir  of  limb. 

At  length  he  sees  within  the  sheen 
Of  trembling  leafage,  darkly  green, 

A  lustrous  eye  that  softly  glistens, 
And  then  a  head  of  royal  mien. 

The  .startled  hillsides  sharply  ring, 
And  answering  echoes  backward  fling, 

While  prone,  upon  the  earth  before  him, 
A  proud  red  deer  lies  quivering. 

He  swings  his  prize  to  shoulders  strong, 
Then  homeward  swiftly  strides  along; 

The  great  blue  skies  a-smiling  o'er  him, 
And  all  around  the  birds  in  song. 

Behind  the  woods  the  sun  creeps  down, 
And  leaves  thereon  a  crimson  crown ; 

From  sapphire  portals,  pale  and  tender, 
Venus  o'erlooks  the  meadows  brown. 

And  now  that  shadows  hide  the  lane 
Where  rolled  the  orchard-laden  wain, 

His  weary  feet  upon  the  fender, 
He  slays  the  red  deer  o'er  again  ! 


346  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

BY  THE  TURRET  STAIR. 

(A.D.    1200.) 

RUN  !     Run  !  little  page,  tell  your  lady  fair 
That  her  lover  waits  by  the  turret  stair, 
That  the  stars  are  out,  and  the  night-wind  blows 
Up  the  garden  path  from  the  crimson  rose — 
Run  !     Run  !  little  page. 

Haste  !     Haste  !  little  page,  ere  the  round  moon's  rim 
Peeps  over  the  edge  of  the  forest  dim, 
And  the  breeze  has  died  that  seems  to  bear 
The  scent  of  the  rose  from  the  trellis  there — 
Haste  !     Haste  !  little  page. 

Soft !     Soft !  little  page,  lest  her  sire  may  guess, 
By  her  look  of  fear  and  fond  distress, 
That  he  hides  in  the  night  by  the  turret  stair 
Who  would  steal  from  his  bower  the  flower  so  fair — 
Soft !     Soft !  little  page. 

List !     List !  little  page,  to  that  faint  footfall 
Far  away  in  the  depths  of  the  vaulted  hall : 
Is  it  echo  alone,  or  a  mournful  moan 
Borne  out  from  those  ghostly  walls  of  stone  ? 
List !     List !  little  page. 

See  !     See  !  little  page,  who  stands  in  white 
All  clad  in  the  pale  and  changing  light ! 
Is't  an  angel  ?     Ay,  'tis  my  lady  fair, 
And  she  hastes  to  her  love  down  the  turret  stair. 
See  !     See  !  little  page. 

Farewell !  little  page,  for  away,  away, 
Through  the  still  black  night  to  the  dawn  of  day 
My  lady  so  sweet  and  I  must  fare 
Till  we  reach  the  foot  of  my  turret  stair- — 
Farewell !  little  page. 


CLINTON  SCOLLARD.  347 


ON  A  BUST  OF  ANTING  US. 

UPON  your  beauteous  face  of  sculptured  glory, 

A  heritage  that  time  shall  ne'er  destroy, 
I  read  your  mournful  and  pathetic  story, 
0  blithe  Bithynian  boy. 

How  through  your  woodlands  green  and  meadows  bloomy 

You  roamed  at  will  in  glad  and  childish  days, 
And  dreamed  that  naught  within  the  world  was  gloomy, 
And  gave  the  great  Gods  praise. 

Knelt  with  your  soft  cheeks  glowing  to  Apollo, 

Hung  garlands  fair  where  Venus  was  enshrined, 
Heard  dryads'  voices  in  the  tree  trunks  hollow, 
Fauns,  in  the  whispering  wind. 

How  the  proud  Csesar  came  and  you  departed, 

Beholding  never  more  your  happy  home, 

But  following  him,  capricious,  myriad-hearted, 

Unto  all-conquering  Rome. 

How  by  your  truthful,  artless  ways  and  tender, 

You  won  the  imperious  monarch's  changeful  love  ; 
How  in  your  soul  his  jeers  did  slow  engender 
Distrust  of  Gods  above. 

How  by  the  Tiber,  in  the  sunlight  golden, 

While  round  you  frowned  the  Olympians,  now  disowned, 
You  pondered  long  o'er  many  a  volume  olden 
Of  creeds  long  since  dethroned. 

How  when  encamped  on  fiery  sands  Egyptian, 

You,  seeking  truth  beneath  their  God's  dark  brows, 
Were  lured  to  death  by  some  priest- wrought  inscription, 
Believing  in  their  vows. 

I  seem  to  see,  as  graven  with  a  stylus, 

The  last  sad  scene,  your  pitiful  despair, 
The  slow  and  sombre  flow  of  dismal  Nilus, — 
To  hear  your  parting  prayer. 


348  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Thus  in  the  loyal  hope  of  death  forefending 
From  his  proud  heart  who  gave  so  little  joy, 

You  brought  your  life  to  sacrificial  ending, 
O  blithe  Bithynian  boy  ! 


SIDNEY  GODOLPHIN. 

THEY  rode  from  the  camp  at  mom 

With  clash  of  sword  and  spur, 
The  birds  were  loud  in  the  thorn, 

The  sky  was  an  azure  blur. 
A  gallant  show  they  made 

That  warm  noon-tide  of  the  year, 
Led  on  by  a  dashing  blade, 

By  the  poet-cavalier. 

They  laughed  through  the  leafy  lanes, 

The  long  lanes  of  Dartmoor, 
And  they  sang  their  soldier  strains, 

Pledged  "death  "  to  the  Roundhead  boor  ; 
Then  they  came  at  the  middle  day 

To  a  hamlet  quaint  and  brown 
Where  the  hated  troopers  lay, 

And  they  cheered  for  the  King  and  crown. 

They  fought  in  the  fervid  heat, 

Fought  fearlessly  and  well, 
But  low  at  the  foeman's  feet 

Their  valorous  leader  fell. 
Full  on  his  fair  young  face 

The  blinding  sun  beat  down  ; 
In  the  morn  of  his  manly  grace 

He  died  for  the  King  and  crown. 

0  the  pitiless  blow, 

The  vengeance-thrust  of  strife 
That  blotted  the  golden  glow 

From  the  sky  of  his  glad,  brave  life  ! 


LANGDON  EL  W  YN  MITCHELL.  349 

The  glorious  promise  gone  ; — 

Night  with  its  grim  black  frown  ! 
Never  again  the  dawn, 

And  all  for  the  King  and  crown. 

Hidden  his  sad  fate  now 

In  the  sealed  book  of  the  years ; 
Few  are  the  heads  that  bow, 

Or  the  eyes  that  brim  with  tears, 
Reading  'twixt  blots  and  stains 

From  a  musty  tome  that  saith 
How  he  rode  through  the  Dartmoor  lanes 

To  his  woeful,  dauntless  death. 

But  I,  in  the  summer's  prime, 

From  that  lovely  leafy  land 
Look  back  to  the  olden  time 

And  the  leal  and  loyal  band. 
I  see  them  dash  along, — 

I  hear  them  charge  and  cheer, 
And  my  heart  goes  out  in  a  song 

To  the  poet-cavalier. 


LANGDON  ELWYN  MITCHELL  (JOHN  PHILIP 
VARLEY). 

[Born  at  Philadelphia,  1862.  Author  of  Sylvian,  and  other  Poems 
(1885,  New  York,  Brentano  Brothers),  from  which  the  poems 
given  are  quoted  by  special  permission.] 

THE   WAY-SIDE  VIRGIN. 
(FRANCE.) 

I  AM  the  Virgin ;  from  this  granite  ledge 
A  hundred  weary  winters  have  I  watched 
The  lonely  road  that  wanders  at  my  feet, 
And  many  days  I've  sat  here,  in  my  lap 
A  little  heap  of  snow,  and  overheard 
The  dry,  dead  voices  of  sere,  rustling  leaves ; 
While  scarce  a  beggar  creaked  across  the  way. 


350  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

How  very  old  I  am ;  I  have  forgot 

The  day  they  fixed  me  here;  and  whence  I  came, 

With  crown  of  gold,  and  all  my  tarnished  blue. 

How  green  the  grass  is  now,  and  all  around 

Blossoms  the  May ;  but  it  is  cold  in  here, 

Sunless  and  cold. — Now  comes  a  little  maid 

To  kneel  among  the  asters  at  my  feet ; 

What  a  sweet  noise  she  makes,  like  murmurings 

Of  bees  in  June ;  I  wonder  what  they  say, 

These  rosy  mortals  when  they  look  at  me  ? 

I  wonder  why 

They  call  me  Mary,  and  bow  down  to  me  ? 

Oh  I  am  weary  of  my  painted  box, 

Come  child, 

And  lay  thy  warm  face  on  my  wooden  cheek, 
That  I  may  feel  it  glow  as  once  of  yore 
It  glowed  when  I,  a  cedar's  happy  heart, 
Felt  the  first  sunshine  of  the  early  spring. 


SONG. 

I  HAVE  a  love  has  golden  hair, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  golden  fair, 
And  golden  is  she  everywhere, 
And  my  love  is  my  golden  care  ! 

For  she  is  like  the  golden  wheat, 
Or  like  the  sunflower  golden-sweet, 
Or  like  the  sun  in  heaven  that  shines, 
Or  like  a  thousand  golden  mines. 

Nor  would  I  change  my  golden  sweet, 
For  golden  mines,  or  golden  wheat, 
Nor  for  the  great  and  golden  sun, 
No,  not  for  ought  he  shines  upon  ! 


MADISON  J.  CAWEIN.  351 

SONG. 

MARY,  the  mother,  sits  on  the  hill 
And  cradles  child  Jesu,  that  lies  so  still ; 
She  cradles  child  Jesu,  that  sleeps  so  sound, 
And  the  little  wind  blows  the  song  around. 

The  little  wind  blows  the  mother's  words, 
"  Ei,  Jesu,  ei,"  like  the  song  of  birds  ; 
"  Ei,  Jesu,  ei,"  I  heard  it  still 
As  I  lay  asleep  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

"  Sleep,  babe,  sleep,  mother  watch  doth  keep, 
Ox  shall  not  hurt  thee,  nor  ass,  nor  sheep ; 
Dew  falls  sweet  from  thy  Father's  sky, 
Sleep,  Jesu,  sleep  !  ei,  Jesu,  ei ! " 


MADISON  J.  CAWEIN. 

[Born  at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  23d  March  1865.  Author  of 
Blooms  of  the  Berry  (1887);  The  Triumph  of  Music  (1888); 
Accolon  of  Gaul  (1889),  all  published  by  John  P.  Morton 
&  Co. ,  Louisville,  Kentucky.  The  poems  given  are  quoted  by 
special  permission.] 

CARMEN; 

LA  Gitanilla  !  tall  dragoons, 
In  Andalusian  afternoons, 
With  ogling  eye  and  compliment 
Smiled  on  you,  as  along  you  went 
Some  sleepy  street  of  old  Seville; 
Twirled  with  a  military  skill 
Moustaches ;  buttoned  uniforms 
Of  Spanish  yellow,  bowed  your  charms. 

Proud,  wicked  head  and  hair  blue-black  ! 
Whence  your  mantilla,  half-thrown  back, 
Discovered  shoulders  and  bold  breast 
Bohemian  brown  !     And  you  were  dressed 
In  some  short  skirt  of  gipsy  red 
Of  smuggled  stuff;  thence  stockings  dead 
White  silk,  exposed  with  many  a  hole, 
Thro'  which  your  plump  legs  roguish 


352  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A  fleshly  look  ;  and  tiny  toes 

In  red  morocco  shoes  with  bows 

Of  scarlet  ribbons.     Daintily 

You  walked  by  me,  and  I  did  see 

Your  oblique  eyes,  your  sensuous  lip, 

That  gnawed  the  rose  you  once  did  flip 

At  bashful  Jose's  nose,  while  loud 

Laughed  the  gaunt  guards  among  the  crowd. 

And  in  your  brazen  chemise  thrust, 

Heaved  with  the  swelling  of  your  bust, 

The  bunch  of  white  acacia  blooms 

Whiffed  past  my  nostrils  hot  perfumes. 

As  in  a  cool  neveria 

I  ate  an  ice  with  Merimee, 

Dark  Carmencita,  you  passed  gay, 

All  holiday  bedizened, 

A  new  mantilla  on  your  head ; 

A  crimson  dress  bespangled  fierce ; 

And  crescent  gold,  hung  in  your  ears, 

Shone  wrought  morisco,  and  each  shoe 

Cordovan  leather,  spangled  blue, 

Glanced  merriment;  and  from  large  arms 

To  well-turned  ancles  all  your  charms 

Blew  fluttering  and  glitterings 

Of  satin  bands  and  beaded  strings ; 

And  round  each  arm's  fair  thigh  one  fold, 

And  graceful  wrists,  a  twisted  gold 

Coiled  serpents'  tails  fixed  in  each  head, 

Convulsive-jewelled  glossy  red. 

In  flowers  and  trimmings  to  the  jar 

Of  mandolin  and  low  guitar 

You  in  the  grated  patio 

Danced ;  the  curled  coxcombs'  flirting  row, 

Rang  pleased  applause.     I  saw  you  dance, 

With  wily  motion  and  glad  glance 

Voluptuous,  the  wild  romalis, 

Where  every  movement  was  a  kiss 

Of  elegance  delicious,  wound 

In  your  Basque  tambourine's  dull  sound 


HENRY  TYRRELL.  353 

Or  as  the  eboii  castanets 
Clucked  out  dry  time  in  unctuous  jets, 
Saw  angry  Jose  thro'  the  grate 
Glare  on  us  a  pale  face  of  hate, 
When  some  indecent  colonel  there 
Presumed  too  lewdly  for  his  ear. 

Some  still  night  in  Seville ;  the  street, 
Candilejo  ;  two  shadows  meet — 
Flash  sabres  crossed  within  the  moon — 
Clash  rapidly — a  dead  dragoon. 


THE  HERON. 

As  slaughter  red  the  long  creek  crawls 
From  solitary  forest  walls, 
Out  where  the  eve's  wild  glory  falls. 
One  wiry  leg  drowned  in  his  breast, 
Neck-shrunk,  flame-gilded  with  the  west, 
Severely  he  the  evening  wears. 

The  whimp'ring  creek  breaks  on  the  stone ; 
The  new  moon  came,  but  now  is  gone  ; 
White,  tingling  stars  wink  out  alone. 
Lank  spectre  of  wet,  windy  lands, 
The  melancholy  heron  stands ; 
To  clamoring  dive  into  the  stars. 


HENRY  TYRRELL. 

[Of  New  York  City.     Born  Ithaca,  N.  Y,  1860.     Published  in 
the  Century  Magazine.] 

THE  DEBUTANTE. 

THE  music  dwells  upon  its  dying  chord, 

And  thou  dost  linger  trembling  at  thy  start 
Across  the  charmed  borderland  of  Art. 
The  footlight's  arc  is  like  a  flaming  sword, 

To  frighten  yet  defend  thee.     Every  word 
Has  meaning  more  than  lies  within  thy  part, 
Thrilled  with  the  pathos  of  a  fainting  heart 
And  asking  sympathy  that  none  afford. 
z 


354  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

But  wait !  and  when  the  fostering  years  shall  bring 
Perfection  to  those  fairest  gifts  of  thine, 
Its  tributes  at  thy  feet  a  world  will  fling, 
And  call  thy  calm  precision  fire  divine. 
All  other  hearts'  emotions  thou  shalt  waken, 
Whilst  thine  amid  the  tempest  rests  unshaken. 


IDYLLS. 

CREUSA,  in  those  idyll  lands  delaying, 

For  ever  hung  with  mellow  mists  of  gold, 
We  find  but  phantoms  of  delights  long  cold. 
We  listen  to  the  pine  and  ilex  swaying 

Only  in  echo ;  to  the  players  playing, 

On  faint,  sweet  flutes,  lost  melodies  of  old. 
The  beauteous  heroes  are  but  stories  told ; 
Vain  at  the  antique  altars  all  our  praying. 

Oh,  might  we  join,  in  vales  unknown  to  story, 
On  shores  unsung,  by  Western  seas  sublime, 
The  spirit  of  that  loveliness  and  glory 

Hellenic,  with  these  hearts  of  fuller  time, 
Then  to  our  days  would  sunnier  joys  belong 
Than  thrill  us  now  in  old  idyllic  song. 


DANIEL  L.  DAWSON. 

[Of  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania.     The  poem  quoted  is  from 
Lippincott's  Magazine.} 

THR  SEEKER  IN  THE  MARSHES. 

THANKSGIVING  to  the  gods  ! 

Shaken  and  shivering  in  the  autumn  rains, 
With  clay  feet  clinging  to  the  weary  sods  ; 

I  wait  below  the  clouds,  amid  the  plains, 
As  though  I  stood  in  some  remote,  strange  clime 
Waiting  to  kneel  upon  the  tomb  of  time. 


DANIEL  L.  DAWS  ON.  355 

The  harvest  swaths  are  gathered  in  the  garth, 

The  aftermath  is  floating  in  the  fields, — 
The  house-carl  bides  beside  the  roaring  hearth, 

And  clustered  cattle  batten  in  the  shields. 

Thank  ye  the  gods,  O  dwellers  in  the  land, 
For  home  and  hearth  and  ever-giving  hand. 

Stretch  hands  to  pray  and  feed  and  sleep  and  die, 
And  then  be  gathered  to  your  kindred  gods  ; 

Low  in  dank  barrows  evermore  to  lie, 
So  long  as  autumn  over  wood-ways  plods, 
Forgetting  the  green  earth  as  ye  forgot 

Its  glory  in  the  day  when  it  was  born 
To  you,  on  some  fair  tide  in  grove  and  grot, 

As  though  new-made  upon  a  glimmering  morn  : 

And  it  shall  so  be  meted  unto  you 

As  ye  did  mete  when  all  things  were  to  do. 

The  wild  rains  cling  around  me  in  the  night 

Closer  than  woman  in  the  sunny  days, 
And  through  these  shaken  veins  a  weird  delight 

Of  loneliness  and  storm  and  sodden  ways 
And  desolation,  made  most  populous, 
Builds  up  the  roof-trees  of  the  gloomy  house 
Of  grief,  to  hide  and  help  my  lonely  path, 
A  sateless  seeker  for  the  aftermath. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  gods  ! 

No  hidden  grapes  are  leaning  to  the  sods, 
No  purple  apple  glances  through  green  leaves, 

Nor  any  fruit  or  flower  is  in  the  rains, 
Nor  any  corn  to  garner  in  long  sheaves  ; 

And  hard  the  toil  is  on  these  scanty  plains, 
Howbeit  I  thank  the  ever-giving  ones, 

Who  dwell  in  high  Olympus  near  the  stars, 
They  have  not  walked  in  ever-burning  suns, 

Nor  has  the  hard  earth  hurt  their  feet  with  scars ; 
Never  the  soft  rains  beat  them,  nor  the  snow, 
Nor  the  sharp  winds  that  we  marsh-stalkers  know 
In  the  sad  halls  of  heaven  they  sleep  the  sleep, 
Yea,  and  no  morn  breaks  through  their  slumber  deep. 


356  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

These  things  they  cast  me  forth  at  eventide  to  bear 

With  curving  sickle  over  sod  and  sand; 
And  no  wild  tempest  drowns  me  to  despair 

Nor  terror  fears  me  in  a  barren  land. 
Perchance  somewhere,  across  the  hollow  hill, 

Or  in  the  thickets  in  these  dreary  meads, 
Great  grapes,  uncut,  are  on  the  limp  vine  still, 

And  waving  corn  still  wears  its  summer  weeds, 
Unseen,  ungathered  in  the  earlier  tide, 
When  larger  summer  o'er  the  earth  did  glide. 
Who  knows?     Belike  from  this  same  sterile  path 
My  harvest  hand,  heaped  with  an  aftermath, 
Shall  cast  the  garner  forth  before  their  feet, 
Shapely  and  shaven  clean,  and  very  sweet. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  gods  ! 
Wet  with  the  falling  rain ; 

My  face  and  sides  are  beaten  as  with  rods, 
And  soft  and  sodden  is  the  endless  plain. 
How  long  !  how  long  !     Do  I  endure  in  vain  ? 


RICHARD  HOYEY. 

[Of  Washington,  D.  C.     Born  in  Illinois  1864.] 

BEETHOVEN S  THIRD  SYMPHONY. 
PASSION  and  pain,  the  outcry  of  despair, 

The  pang  of  the  unattainable  desire, 

And  youth's  delight  in  pleasures  that  expire 
And  sweet  high  dreamings  of  the  good  and  fair 
Clashing  in  swift  soul-storm,  through  which  no  prayer 

Uplifted  stays  the  destined  death-stroke  dire. 

Then  through  a  mighty  sorrowing,  as  through  fire, 
The  soul  burnt  pure  yearns  forth  into  the  air 
Of  the  dear  earth  and,  with  the  scent  of  flowers 

And  song  of  birds  assuaged,  takes  heart  again, 

Made  cheerier  with  this  drinking  of  God's  wine, 
And  turns  with  healing  to  the  world  of  men, 
And  high  above  a  sweet  strong  angel  towers, 

And  Love  makes  life  triumphant  and  divine. 


ARTHUR  MACY.  357 

ARTHUR  MACY. 

[Of  Boston,  Massachusetts.] 

MY  MASTERPIECE. 

I  WROTE  the  truest,  tend'rest  song 

The  world  has  ever  heard  ; 
And  clear,  melodious  and  strong 

And  sweet  was  every  word. 
The  flowing  numbers  came  to  me 

Unbidden  from  the  heart ; 
So  pure  the  strain,  that  poesy 

Seemed  something  more  than  art. 

No  doubtful  cadence  marred  a  line, 

So  tunefully  it  flowed, 
And  through  the  measure,  all  divine 
"   The  fire  of  genius  glowed. 
So  deftly  were  the  verses  wrought, 

So  fair  the  legend  told, 
That  every  word  revealed  a  thought, 

And  every  thought  was  gold. 

Mine  was  the  charm,  the  power,  the  skill, 

The  wisdom  of  the  years  ; 
Twas  mine  to  move  the  world  at  will 

To  laughter  or  to  tears. 
For  subtile  pleasantry  was  there, 

And  brilliant  flash  of  wit, 
Now,  pleading  eyes  were  raised  in  prayer, 

And  now  with  smiles  were  lit. 

I  sang  of  hours  when  youth  was  king, 

And  of  one  happy  spot 
Where  life  and  love  were  everything, 

And  time  was  half  forgot. 
Of  gracious  days  in  woodland  ways, 

When  every  flower  and  tree 
Seemed  echoing  the  sweetest  phrase 

From  lips  in  Arcadie. 


358  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Of  sages  old  and  Norseman  bands 

That  sailed  o'er  northern  seas  ; 
Enchanting  tales  of  fairy  lands 

And  strange  philosophies. 
I  sang  of  Egypt's  fairest  queen, 

With  passion's  fatal  curse  ; 
Of  that  pale,  sad-faced  Florentine, 

As  deathless  as  his  verse. 

Of  time  of  the  Arcadian  Pan, 

When  dryads  thronged  the  trees — 
When  Atalanta  swiftly  ran 

With  fleet  Hippomenes. 
Brave  stories,  too,  did  I  relate 

Of  battle  flags  unfurled  ; 
Of  glorious  days  when  Greece  was  great 

When  Rome  was  all  the  world  ! 

Of  noble  deeds  for  noble  creeds, 

Of  woman's  sacrifice — 
The  mother's  stricken  heart  that  bleeds 

For  souls  in  Paradise. 
Anon  I  told  a  tale  of  shame, 

And  while  in  tears  I  slept, 
Behold  !  a  white-robed  angel  came 

And  read  the  words  and  wept ! 

And  so  I  wrote  my  perfect  song, 

In  such  a  wondrous  key, 
I  heard  the  plaudits  of  the  throng, 

And  fame  awaited  me, 
Alas  !  the  sullen  morning  broke, 

And  came  the  tempest's  roar  : 
'Mid  discord  trembling  I  awoke, 

And  lo  !  my  dream  was  o'er  ! 

Yet  often  in  the  quiet  night 

My  song  returns  to  me  ; 
I  seize  the  pen,  and  fain  would  write 

My  long  lost  melody. 


OSCAR  FA  Y  ADAMS.  359 

But  dreaming  o'er  the  words,  ere  long 

Comes  vague  remembering, 
And  fades  away  the  sweetest  song 

That  man  can  ever  sing  ! 


OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS. 

[Author  of  The  Handbook  of  English  Authors,  The  Handbook  of 
American  Authors,  Through  the  Year  with  the  Poets,  etc.,  etc.~\ 

BEATEN. 

WHERE  is  the  spirit  of  striving  that  once  was  so  strong 

in  my  heart  1 
And  where  is  the  lofty  devotion  that  attended  my  steps 

at  the  start  ? 

I  was  so  full  of  my  purpose  and  never  gave  way  to  a  doubt, 
Never  looked  forward  to   failure,  whatever  dark  clouds 

were  about, 
Always  believed  in  hard  fighting,  and  never  once  tiusted 

to  luck, 
Put  my  whole  soul  in  my  doing,  and  honest  each  blow 

that  I  struck. 

What  is  the  guerdon  of  labour,  of  honesty  what  the  reward? 
Only  a  pittance  at  most,  with  simplicity  conquered  by  fraud. 
Where  is  the  joy  of  believing  when  faith  is  met  by  a  sneer? 
Why  should  we  look  to  the  future  expecting  the  skies  to 
be  clear  ? 

Always  the  strongest  are  prospered  :  why  may  it  not  be 

so  again 
If  there's  a  heaven  hereafter  reserved  for  the  children  of 

men? 

Might  has  the  best  of  us  here,  and  may  it  not  be  so  beyond  1 
I  who  am  vanquished  in  battle   have  little  to  do  but 

despond. 
Never  for  me  will  the  prospect  be  brightened  again  by 

a  hope ; 
I  have  grown  old  in  the  conflict,  and  care  not  with  evil 

to  cope. 


360  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Beateu  am  I  in  the  struggle,  the  doom  of  the'  conquered 

is  mine ; 
Darkness  and  clouds  are  about  me,  the  morrow  I  may 

not  divine. 
Now  I  await  the  glad  moment  when  I  shall  have  done 

with  it  all, 
When  the  long  strife  shall  be  ended,  and  I  turn  my  face 

to  the  wall 


MAURICE  EGAN. 
OF  FLOWERS. 

THERE  were  no  roses  till  the  first  child  died, 
No  violets,  no  balmy-breathed  heartsease, 
No  heliotrope,  nor  buds  so  dear  to  bees, 
The  honey-hearted  woodbine,  no  gold-eyed 
And  white-lashed  daisy-flowers,  nor,  stretching  wide, 
Clover  and  cowslip-cups,  like  rival  seas, 
Meeting  and  parting,  as  the  young  spring  breeze 
Runs  giddy  races  playing  seek  and  hide  : 
For  all  flowers  died  when  Eve  left  Paradise, 
And  all  the  world  was  flowerless  awhile, 
Until  a  little  child  was  laid  in  earth ; 
Then  from  its  grave  grew  violets  for  its  eyes, 
And  from  its  lips  rose-petals  for  its  smile, 

And  so  all  flowers  from  that  child's  death  took  birth. 


THE  OLD  VIOLIN. 

THOUGH  tuneless,  stringless,  it  lies  there  in  dust 
Like  some  great  thought  on  a  forgotten  page ; 

The  soul  of  music  cannot  fade  or  rust — 

The  voice  within  it  stronger  grows  with  age ; 

Its  strings  and  bow  are  only  trifling  things — 
A  master-touch  i  its  sweet  soul  wakes  and  sings. 


MA  URICE  EG  AN.  361 


THEOCRITUS. 

DAPHNIS  is  mute,  and  hidden  nymphs  complain, 
And  mourning  mingles  with  their  fountains'  song; 
Shepherds  contend  no  more,  as  all  day  long 

They  watch  their  sheep  on  the  wide,  cyprus-plain ; 

The  master-voice  is  silent,  songs  are  vain ; 

Blithe  Pan  is  dead,  and  tales  of  ancient  wrong, 
Done  by  the  gods  when  gods  and  men  were  strong, 

Chanted  to  reeded  pipes,  no  prize  can  gain  : 

O  sweetest  singer  of  the  olden  days, 

In  dusty  books  your  idylls  rare  seem  dead  ; 
The  gods  are  gone,  but  poets  never  die; 

Though  men  may  turn  their  ears  to  newer  lays, 
Sicilian  nightingales  enraptured 

Caught  all  your  songs,  and  nightly  thrill  the  sky. 


MAURICE  DE  GUERIN. 

THE  old  wine  filled  him,  and  he  saw,  with  eyes 
Anoint  of  Nature,  fauns  and  dryads  fair 
Unseen  by  others ;  to  him  maidenhair 

And  waxen  lilacs  and  those  birds  that  rise 

A-sudden  from  tall  reeds  at  slight  surprise 

Brought  charmed  thoughts ;  and  in  earth  everywhere 
He,  like  sad  Jaques,  found  unheard  music  rare 

As  that  of  Syrinx  to  old  Grecians  wise. 

A  pagan  heart,  a  Christian  soul  had  he, 

He  followed  Christ,  yet  for  dead  Pan  he  sighed, 
Till  earth  and  heaven  met  within  his  breast : 

As  if  Theocritus  in  Sicily 

Had  come  upon  the  Figure  crucified 

And  lost  his  gods  in  deep,  Christ-given  rest. 


362  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

JAMES  E.  NESMITH. 

MONADNOC. 


FROM  field  and  fold  aloof  he  stands, 
A  lonely  peak  in  peopled  lands, 
Rock-ridged  above  his  wooded  bands  : 

Like  a  huge  arrow-head  in  stone, 

Or  baffled  stag  at  bay  alone,— 

Round  him  the  pack-like  hills  lie  prone. 

The  gentle  hours,  in  gradual  flight, 
Weave  round  his  huge  impassive  height 
A  warp  of  gloom,  a  woof  of  light: 

All  day  the  purple  shadows  dream 
Along  his  slopes,  or  upward  stream; 
And  shafts  of  golden  sunlight  gleam,— 

Searching  the  dusk  of  humid  dells, 
To  sleep  among  the  sleeping  wells, 
And  frowning  rocks  where  Echo  dwells. 

Mild  as  the  breath  from  isles  of  palm, 
The  breezes,  blowing  in  the  calm, 
Breathe  sweet  with  balsam,  fern,  and  balm 

Huge  cloud-cliffs  fringe  the  blue  profound, 
And  lift  their  large  white  faces  round 
The  dim  horizon's  distant  bound. 

II. 

If  the  dull  task  begins  to  tire, 
When  dawn's  pure  flood  of  rosy  fire 
Strikes  up  each  beaming  wall  and  spire, 

Awake,  and  mount  his  rocky  stair, — 
Drink  deep  from  we]ls  of  taintless  air, — 
And  lighter  grows  the  load  of  care: 


JAMES  E.  NESM1TH.  363 

Hampshire's  white  hills  at  distance  rise, 
Pure  peaks  that  climb  the  azure  skies, 
The  peopled  plain's  blue  boundaries. 

The  mist,  in  wither'd  wreaths  and  swirls, 
Is  blown  before  the  breeze  which  curls 
Up  from  the  shining  underworlds: 

Stray  troops  from  teeming  cities  take 
His  battlements  with  shouts,  and  make 
The  sleepy  echoes  start  awake ; 

The  ringing  laugh,  the  random  rhyme, 
Come  back  in  mimic  as  they  climb, 
From  aged  crags  as  old  as  time. 

We  see  the  creeping  morning  train 
Crawl  out  across  the  distant  plain, 
The  smoke  drifts  like  a  dusky  stain ; 

And  hear  afar  the  iron  horse 

Hurl'd  headlong  on  his  gleaming  course 

A  fragment  of  the  cosmic  force ; 

His  screaming  vapours  hoarse  with  sound, 
And  clash'd  and  crashing  on  the  ground 
His  clanging  wheels  roll'd  ever  round  : 

A  wing'd  and  wandering  meteor  sent 
To  be  a  woodland  wonderment, 
In  vales  and  valleys  indolent ; 

A  fiery  vision  which  invades 
The  stillness  of  sequester'd  shades, 
And  daisied  fields  and  drowsy  glades ; 

And  roars  with  an  intenser  light 
In  dim  recesses  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  forest  with  affright. 

Faint  from  below  resounds  or  shrills 
His  shriek  among  the  lonely  hills, 
His  foot  above  the  foaming  rills ; 


364  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

He  feels  the  fires  that  gnaw  his  heart, 
Before  him  shapes  and  shadows  start, 
Behind  him  fields  and  forests  dart ; 

He  rolls  along  the  ringing  rails, 
The  cliffs  and  loud  indignant  dales 
Echo  with  wild  and  warning  wails. 

The  shock  and  tumult  came  not  near 
The  still  parks  of  the  mountaineer. 
But  softer  sound  for  him  to  hear : 

His  straining  sight  may  only  mark 
A  floating  smoke  or  flying  spark 
Flit  thro'  the  daylight  or  the  dark. 

HI. 

At  dusk  he  watches  from  the  steep 
The  gloom  which  wraps  the  distant  deep 
Across  the  sinking  landscape  creep  ; 

To  feed  upon  the  tender  light, 
And  each  serene  and  lovely  sight 
That  blooms  upon  the  verge  of  night. 

Beyond  brown  beds  of  brake  and  fern, 
Like  embers  in  the  night's  black  urn. 
The  sullen  fires  of  sunset  burn : 

The  caverns  of  the  burning  beam, 
Behind  dark  clouds,  thro'  rent  and  seam 
And  fiery  cracks  and  chasms  gleam; 

Deep  pits  of  flame  beyond  the  pines, 
Whose  stems,  in  long  and  slender  lines, 
Divide  the  light  as  day  declines; 

Fill'd  with  fierce  fires  which  slowly  wane, 
And  glimmer  on  the  distant  plain, 
And  lighten  thro'  the  lonely  lane. 


JAMES  E.  NESMITH.  365 

The  darken'd  woods  and  dim  dull  streams 
Brighten  with  the  unearthly  gleams 
Which  haunt  the  western  gate  of  dreams; 

Which  drape  the  hovel,  lifted  high 
Between  the  water  and  the  sky, 
In  beauty  that  transports  the  eye; 

And  throw  their  bright  prismatic  ray 
About  the  ruin'd,  dying  day, 
Which  sinks  in  darkness  and  decay; 

Fallen  about  the  fading  west, 
By  dim  decrepit  fires  caress'd, 
And  shades  that  suffer  no  arrest. 

The  gloom  about  the  mountain's  base 

Crawls  up  and  falls  upon  his  face, 

His  form  grows  faint  in  night's  embrace. 

He  takes  upon  his  breast  and  head 
The  glow  which  from  the  plain  has  fled, 
Ere  yet  the  dying  sun  is  dead. 

The  trailing  glories  droop  and  die 
Along  the  lake  where  they  did  lie, 
And  the  wild  light  forsakes  the  sky. 


VII. 

Bald  crag, — he  is  more  dead  asleep 
Than  long  drown'd  seamen  in  the  deep, 
Where  tides  of  awful  stillness  creep : 

He  would  not  hear  the  bitter  cry 
Should  tender  Youth  and  Beauty  lie 
Stretch'd  on  his  sharpest  stones  to  die. 


366  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

What  answers  when  the  groping  thought 
Would  probe  the  depths  whence  Le  was  brought,  - 
The  unknown  past  which  speaketh  naught  ? 

What  change  has  warped  the  hills  and  leas 
Since  first  he  rose  to  forms  like  these 
Above  the  wild  Laurentian  seas  ? 

The  Alps  and  Andes  were  not  born 
When  first  he  saw  the  beaming  morn 
Paint  on  the  dark  a  world  forlorn: 

He  heard  the  wind  of  Destiny 
Speed  trackless  over  land  and  sea, 
Sowing  the  seeds  of  life  to  be  : 

Where  now  the  youths  and  maidens  climb, 
The  uncouth  dragons  of  the  prime 
Crawl'd  at  the  gloomy  dawn  of  time: 

He  saw  the  arctic  ice  intrude 
Into  his  realm,  summer  exclude, 
And  make  a  desert  solitude. 

The  Frost  his  crystal  coils  unwound, — 
In  his  cold  circle  crawl'd,  wall'd  round 
With  snows  and  frozen  deeps  profound. 


VIII. 

The  savage  roam'd  the  fruitful  land, — 
His  past  a  gulf  no  bridge  has  spanned, 
A  stream  which  withers  in  the  sand  : 

Either  from  Asia's  ancient  hives 
The  tempests  tossed  a  few  frail  lives, 
Whence  the  wild  West  her  hordes  derives ; 

Or  Nature,  working  out  her  plan, 
To  mould  the  occidental  man, 
Wrought  the  rich  clay  of  Yucatan. 


JAMES  E.  NE SMITH.  367 

There  his  wild  roots  took  firmest  hold, 

In  cruel  cities,  long  of  old, 

Of  which  no  traveller's  tale  is  told: 

Whose  crimes  bold  Cortes  guess'd  of  yore, 
Finding  along  the  lonely  shore 
Abandon'd  altars  smear'd  with  gore: 

Whose  thronging  streets  and  temples  stood 
Where  now  decay  and  ruin  brood, 
Within  a  vast  and  ancient  wood, 

Strewed  with  crude  idols,  fallen  prone, 

The  Molochs  of  a  rite  unknown, 

Like  that  which  stained  the  Druid's  stone. 


IX. 

Beyond  the  middle  stream  and  plain, 
The  race  increas'd,  from  main  to  main, — 
Grew  mixed  in  blood,  with  many  a  strain  ; 

Mound-builders  and  nomadic  bands, 
Cliff-dwellers,  who  in  hostile  lands 
Hollow'd  their  homes  with  patient  hands ; 

And  cut  the  Colorado's  wall 

In  forms  grotesque,  crude  curve  and  scrawl, 

Strange  shapes  of  things  that  swim  or  crawl 

Warriors  whose  dusky  mothers  bore 
Tecumseh,  Uncas,  Sagamore, 
To  keep  the  keys  of  savage  lore  ; 

Who  hunted  here  their  tawny  herds, 
And  gave  to  mountains,  brooks,  and  birds, 
The  poetry  of  lovely  words: 

Chocorua,  whose  utterance  falls 

Like  mountain  echoes,  and  recalls 

Bald  peaks,  dark  pines,  and  rocky  walls ; 


368  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Niagara,  whose  sound  awakes 

Wild  cataract  voices,  roaring  breaks 

Of  foam,  white  streams,  and  plunging  lakes. 

The  sweet-lipp'd  Susquehanna  sings 

The  name  they  gave  her,  where  she  brings 

Her  whispering  waters  from  the  springs  ; 

And  Minnehaha  in  the  West, 

By  those  soft  syllables  caress'd 

Will  chide  her  wild  waves  when  they  rest, 

And  scold  each  into  song  again, 
To  speak  them  to  the  pebbled  plain, 
The  pathless  wood  and  steep  moraine. 

They  vanish'd  like  thin  shreds  of  night, 
And  ragged  mists,  from  creek  and  bight, 
When  seas  are  kissed  with  dawn's  first  light 

Their  voices  with  the  streams  are  roll'd, 
And  murmur  when  their  names  are  told 
The  music  of  the  tongues  of  old. 

x. 

A  stronger  race  possess'd  the  soil, 
To  wrest  therefrom  the  fruits  of  toil, 
And  load  their  homes  with  peaceful  spoil : 

Imperial  peoples,  crossing  seas, 

From  lands  long  loved  and  lives  of  ease, 

To  colonise  primeval  leas; 

Whose  children  rose  to  heights  sublime; 
Whose  light  increas'd  to  latest  time, 
Not  reaching  now  the  perfect  prime; 

Which  yet  but  flickers  thro'  the  gloom, 
And  nutters  from  the  brinks  of  doom, 
To  meet  the  darkness  of  the  tomb. 


JAMES  E.  NE SMITH.  369 

When  earth  forgets  that  man  was  born, 
Monadnoc  still  shall  hail  the  morn, 
His  aged  crags  not  yet  outworn. 

He  sits  as  when  in  moods  of  thought 
Men  stare  with  vacant  eyes  at  naught, 
Heedless  of  what  around  is  wrought. 

A  Titan  fallen  from  the  stars 

He  seems,  here  in  celestial  wars 

Hurl'd  down,  and  seamed  with  fearful  scars; 

His  brow  upturn'd  to  that  high  realm 
Where  erst  he  rear'd  his  radiant  helm, 
And  godlike  rushed  to  overwhelm. 


XI. 

Take  flight  and  circle  all  the  sky, 
More  lofty  mountains  chain  the  eye, 
The  themes  of  dim  antiquity; 

The  Hindu  Kailas,  and  those  twain 
The  twofold  sacred  rivers  drain, 
Drawing  their  waters  to  the  plain; 

And  Taurus;  Atlas,  icy  topped; 
Tall  Ararat  whose  pillars  propped 
The  Ark  when  all  the  waters  dropped; 

The  hills  of  Hellas,  with  their  wells 

And  fabled  waters,  classic  cells, 

And  column'd  shrines  and  pine  dark  dells ; 

And  many  that  sit  eminent 
Within  the  broad-]  >lain'd  Occident, 
Cordilleras  magnificent : 

Primeval  peaks  of  frost  and  fire, — 
Dome,  wall,  and  pinnacle  and  spire, 
Which  pierce  the  spirit  with  desire  ; 
2A 


370  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  ancient  homes  of  high  emprise, 

Like  ocean  opening  to  the  eyes 

New  lands,  new  hopes,  and  larger  skies ; 

The  seats  of  Freedom  from  of  old, 
Quarries  and  mines  whose  ribs  infold 
Rare  crystals,  silver,  and  pure  gold ; 

The  source  of  fruitful  streams  which  flow 
Thro'  teeming  continents  below, 
Beside  whose  banks  great  cities  grow. 


XII. 

No  everlasting  ice  has  crown'd 
The  crag  above,  no  gold  is  found 
Within  his  rock-seal'd  entrails  bound, 

Yet  here  men  feel  the  mystery, 
The  power  and  ancient  royalty, 
Which  cloak  the  mountain  and  the  sea. 

Imagination  lightly  springs 

From  his  bleak  rock  and  spreads  her  wings, 

And  scales  the  heaven's  cloudy  rings. 

The  cabin'd  spirit  here  can  find 
Free  pastures,  and  the  jaded  mind 
The  strength  for  which  it  was  design'd. 

No  classic  pool  is  here,  or  shrine, 
But  pillar'd  temples  of  sweet  pine, 
And  cool  pure  waters  crystalline ; 

A  clear  and  dappled  brook,  inlaid 
With  spotted  sands,  in  sun  and  shade, 
From  his  tall  top  a  long  cascade, 

Till  in  the  meads  asleep  it  lies, 
And  changing  colour  with  the  skies, 
Mirrors  the  world  like  living  eyes. 


JAMES  E.  NE SMITH.  371 

XIII. 

Here  at  the  death  of  lovely  days, 

What  time  the  smouldering  beam  decays, 

Dark  phantoms  haunt  the  dusky  ways; 

The  shows  of  Fancy  when  she  takes 

The  gleams  and  glooms  of  night,  and  wakes 

A  seeming  life  in  forms  she  makes; 

And  working  from  dim  clews,  detects 

Conceal'd  resemblances,  effects 

Wrought  of  deep  shade  and  day's  bright  wrecks  : 

Dark  boles  like  voiceless  sentinels  stand, 
The  glow  of  sunset's  glimmering  brand 
Burning  along  the  dusky  land: 

A  sunken  thicket  then  appears 

An  ambush  set  with  threatening  spears ; 

A  mask  each  grovelling  shadow  wears, 

And  mocks  the  gloomy  beasts  of  yore, 
Whose  shambling  shapes  appear  no  more, 
Whose  dens  the  little  lads  explore : 

Fierce  Bruin,  burly,  dull,  uncouth, 
Huge  honey  lover,  his  sweet  tooth, 
Blood-guilty,  sharp,  and  bare  of  ruth, — 

Content  to  grub  for  worms  or  rut 
In  rotten  leaves,  for  herb  or  nut, 
Or  offal  from  the  logger's  hut: 

The  giant  cat,  who  whilom  kept 

The  woods  in  fear,  who,  crouching,  crept 

So  softly  cruel  and  adept; 

The  beautiful  and  pitiless, 
Cloth'd  with  perfidious  loveliness, 
And  smooth,  soft  skin  that  none  caress; 


372  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Not  now  she  rustles  in  the  hush, 

Or  springs  from  bending  branch  to  crush 

The  red  deer  in  the  trampled  bush : 

The  moody  moose,  morose,  forlorn, 
His  bearded  head  hung  with  huge  horn, 
A  monstrous  growth  each  year  newborn, 

A  creature  fashion'd  in  the  mould 

Of  sombre  forests  vast  and  old, 

Moss  bound,  and  green  thro'  heat  and  cold,- 

Obscure  and  sullen,  timid,  mild, 
True  birth  of  that  rude  northern  wild 
To  whose  dim  swamps  he  seems  exiled ; 

In  touch  with  their  mysterious  shades, 
Dark  hemlocks,  pines,  and  cedar  glades 
Whose  mournful  verdure  never  fades. 

For  him  the  lonely  hunter  waits 

And  watches  till  dawn  penetrates, 

In'  long  bright  cracks,  night's  sombre  gates, 

What  time  his  monstrous  antlers  loom 
Between  the  glimmering  light  and  gloom, 
And  totter  where  he  meets  his  doom. 


XIV. 

Here  once  a  careless  foot  might  wake 
The  coil'd  and  sleeping  rattlesnake, 
And  raise  him  bristling  from  the  brake  : 

Now  where  the  dying  sunbeam  falls 
He  haunts  the  naked  plains,  or  crawls 
In  canons  and  by  mountain  walls. 

A  lonely  lover  of  the  sun, 

Tbo'  armed  with  death,  content  to  shun 

The  foe  from  which  he  will  not  run. 


JAMES  E.  NESMITH.  373 

Whom  oft  the  scout,  at  break  of  day, 
Findeth  beside  the  fainting  ray 
Of  his  dim  fire,  with  dumb  dismay; 

Or  warmed  within  some  inner  fold 
Of  his  furred  robe,  made  over-bold 
By  the  old  curse  that  keeps  him  cold. 

The  harmless  adder  yet  may  hide 
Close  by,  upon  the  warm  hillside, 
Or  cool'd  beside  some  crystal  tide; 

His  chequer'd  cousin,  curl'd  among 
The  stones,  may  flicker  with  his  tongue, 
And  hiss,  yet  leave  his  foe  unstung. 

The  porcupine  makes  his  wild  home 
By  gloomy  rills  which  roll  in  foam, 
Dropped  from  the  mountain's  mighty  dome : 

The  trout  yet  haunt  the  lucid  streams, 
Now  pois'd,  still  as  the  golden  beams, 
Now  darting  thro'  the  watery  gleams: 

The  grouse,  conceal'd  from  curious  eyes, 
Drums  in  the  wood,  or  whirring  flies, 
Leaving  us  still  with  sharp  surprise : 

A  scornful  eagle  yet  may  dare 

The  distant  shot,  the  shout,  the  stare, 

And  keep  the  lordship  of  the  air  : 

And  when  the  wild  and  waning  year 
Crisp  curls  the  crystal  mountain  mere, 
The  wary  waterfowl  appear. 


374  yO  UNGER  A  ME  RICA  N  POE  TS. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT. 

[Born  in  Pennsylvania,  1832.  Author  'of '  Moods,  Little  Women, 
Little  Men,  An  Old-Fashioned  Girl,  Eight  Cuusins,  Under  the 
Lilacs,  etc.  The  poem  quoted  is  from  A  Masque  of  Poets,  by 
kind  permission  of  Messrs  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston.] 


TRANSFIG  URA  TION. 

MYSTERIOUS  Death  !  who  in  a  single  hour 

Life's  gold  can  so  refine ; 

And  by  thy  art  divine 
Change  mortal  weakness  to  immortal  power  ! 

Bending  beneathrthe  weight  of  eighty  years, 

Spent  with  the  noble  strife 

Of  a  victorious  life, 
We  watched  her  fading  heavenward,  through  our  tears. 

But,  ere  the  sense  of  loss  our  hearts  had  wrung, 

A  miracle  was  wrought, 

And  swift  as  happy  thought 
She  lived  again,  brave,  beautiful,  and  young. 

Age,  Pain  and  Sorrow  dropped  the  veils  they  wore, 

And  showed  the  tender  eyes 

Of  angels  in  disguise, 
Whose  discipline  so  patiently  she  bore. 

The  past  years  brought  their  harvest  rich  and  fair, 

While  Memory  and  Love 

Together  fondly  wove 
A  golden  garland  for  the  silver  hair. 

How  could  we  mourn  like  those  who  are  bereft, 

When  every  pang  of  grief 

Found  balm  for  its  relief 
In  counting  up  the  treasure  she  had  left  1 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT.  375 

Faith  that  withstood  the  shocks  of  toil  and  time, 

Hope  that  defied  despair, 

Patience  that  conquered  care, 
And  loyalty  whose  courage  was  sublime. 

The  great,  deep  heart  that  was  a  home  for  all ; 

Just,  eloquent  and  strong, 

In  protest  against  wrong  ; 
Wide  charity  that  knew  no  sin,  no  fall. 

The  Spartan  spirit  that  made  life  so  grand, 

Mating  poor  daily  needs 

With  high,  heroic  deeds, 
That  wrested  happiness  from  Fate's  hard  hand. 

We  thought  to  weep,  but  sing  for  joy  instead, 

Full  of  the  grateful  peace 

That  followed  her  release ; 
For  nothing  but  the  weary  dust  lies  dead. 

Oh  noble  woman  !  never  more  a  queen 

Than  in  the  laying  down 

Of  sceptre  and  of  crown, 
To  win  a  greater  kingdom  yet  unseen  : 

Teaching  us  how  to  seek  the  highest  goal ; 

To  earn  the  true  success ; 

To  live,  to  love,  to  bless, 
And  make  death  proud  to  take  a  royal  soul. 


ANNE  REEVE  ALDRICH. 

[Author  of  The  Rose  of  Flame  (New  York,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
1889),  from  which  these  extracts  are  made  by  special  per 
mission.  ] 

COLOR  SONG. 

WHITE  and  red,  wine  and  bread, 
We  ate  and  drank,  our  wooing  sped. 
Alas,  the  measure  of  secret  pleasure, 
My  mother's  curse  is  on  my  head. 


376  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Green  and  blue,  land  and  sea, 

Over  them  both  you  fled  from  me. 

Ah  mad,  sweet  wooing,  'twas  my  undoing, 

No  more  on  Earth  your  face  I  see. 


A  SONG  OF  LIFE. 

DID  I  seek  life  ?     Not  so ;  its  weight  was  laid  upon  me, 
And  yet  of  my  burden  sore  I  may  not  set  myself  free. 
Two  love,  and  lo,  at  love's  call,  a  hapless  soul  must  wake; 
Like  a  slave  it  is  called  to  the  world,  to  bear  life,  for 
their  love's  sake. 

Did  I  seek  love  ?    Not  so;  Love  led  me  along  by  the  hand. 
Love  beguiled  me  with  songs  and  caresses,  -while  I  took 

no  note  of  the  land. 
And  lo,  I  stood  in  a  quicksand,  but  Love  had  wings,  and 

he  fled. 
Ah  fool,  for  a  mortal  to  venture  where  only  a  god  may  tread ! 


THE   WISH. 

COME,  let  us  spend  an  idle  hour  in  wishing. 

Like  happy  children  on  a  summer's  day, 
Feigning  we  never  spent  a  past  together, 

Nor  know  what  farewells  we  shall  have  to  say. 

And  I  will  wish  this  silver  tide  of  moonlight, 
That  shows  your  tender  face,  and  upturned  eyes, 

Its  weary  lips  half  parted  in  their  languor, 
Too  tired  with  kissing  me,  to  speak  replies. 

— I  wish  this  silver  tide  of  summer  moonlight, 
Were  that  strange  flood  of  ancient  fairy  lore, 

Wherein  the  hapless  mortal  rashly  plunging, 
Was  changed  from  flesh  to  stone,  forevermore. 


CHARLOTTE  FISKE  RATES.  377 

Through  the  long  centuries  we  should  still  be  sleeping, 
And  time  would  never  touch  your  luring  charms, 

And  I,  past  any  chance  of  changing  fortune, 
Should  hold  you,  through  the  ages,  in  my  arms. 

Ah,  Sweet,  the  days  are  past  of  elfin  magic 
And  you  must  fade  like  any  other  flower, 

And,  at  the  longest,  I  can  only  linger 

To  keep  you  in  my  arms  one  fleeting  hour. 

Ah,  Sweet,  forgive  the  reverie's  bitter  ending, 
What,  has  my  foolish  fancy  made  you  weep  ? 

Nay,  close  instead  those  white  and  weary  eyelids, 
And  dream  we  love  for  ever,  in  your  sleep. 


CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 

[Born  in  New  York  City,  30th  November  1838.  Author  of  Risk, 
and  other  Poems  (Boston,  1879) ;  The  Seven  Voices  of  Sympathy 
(1881),  etc.  Died  1889.] 

SPRINGS. 

WITH  unaccustomed  tenderness 

The  waywai-d  son  enfolds  his  mother; 

With  strange  and  sudden  gentleness 
The  sister  looks  upon  her  brother. 

The  babe  is  tightened  in  the  hold, 

With  gushes  of  maternal  passion; 
The  wife  and  husband  show  their  love 

After  the  maid's  and  lover's  fashion. 

And  some  white  face  with  moveless  lids 
That  can  be  wet  with  tears  no  longer, 

Staying  perchance  life's  wonted  way 

Has  made  love's  current  flow  the  stronger. 

Or,  it  may  be,  in  last  night's  dream, 

Each  felt  what  might  be  Death's  aggression ; 

And  waking,  tearful  Love  ran  forth, 
To  prove  still  safe  his  own  possession. 


3?S  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

AT  TAPPAN. 

THIS  is  the  place  where  Andr£  met  that  death 
Whose  infamy  was  keenest  of  its  throes, 

And  in  this  place  of  bravely-yielded  breath 
His  ashes  found  a  fifty-years'  repose  ; 

And  then,  at  last,  a  transatlantic  grave, 

With  those  who  have  been  kings  in  blood  or  fame, 

As  Honour  here  some  compensation  gave 
For  that  once  forfeit  to  a  hero's  name. 

But  whether  in  the  Abbey's  glory  laid, 
Or  on  so  fair  but  fatal  Tappan's  shore, 

Still  at  his  grave  have  noble  hearts  betrayed 
The  loving  pity  and  regret  they  bore. 

In  view  of  all  he  lost — his  youth,  his  love, 
And  possibilities  that  wait  the  brave, 

Inward  and  outward  bound,  dim  visions  move 
Like  passing  sails  upon -the  Hudson's  wave. 

The  Country's  Father  !  how  do  we  revere 
His  justice — Brutus-like  in  its  decree — 

With  Andre-sparing  mercy,  still  more  dear 
Had  been  his  name — if  that,  indeed,  could  be  ! 


LAST  DA  YS  OF  B  YRON. 

JUST  at  the  point 

Of  facing  death  in  fronting  Moslem  steel, 
Lo  !  in  the  fever's  silent  strife  he  sank  ! 
Out  of  the  valorous  yet  chaotic  Greeks 
His  skill  and  nerve  had  gathered  ordered  ranks. 


CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES.  379 

May  not  the  chaos  of  his  passions  first 

Have   heard   light    summoned,    and    have   felt   its 

dawn? 

May  not  the  liberty  of  God's  own  truth 
Have  struck  some  shackles  of  his  bondage  off 
While  he  was  seeking  to  make  others  free  1 
Amid  the  blackness  we  must  see  and  shun, 
Gleams  out  a  light  wherein  it  read  the  hint 
Of  the  surpassing  glory  sin  eclipsed. 
Who    knows    what    age    or    illness    might    have 

wrought? 

Those  two  reformers  of  an  evil  life, 
That  have  of  vilest  sinners  moulded  saints. 
Be  it  not  ours  to  cover  vice  of  his, 
But  to  remember  we  have  seen  his  worst, 
Which  most  men  hide  as  misers  hide  their  hoard. 

While    Thought    drinks    in    the    purest    tones    he 

struck, 

All  her  nerves  tremble  with  bewildered  joy  : 
Round  some  creations  such  a  splendour  burns, 
He  seems  himself  the  very  lyric  god, 
Encircling  whom,  great  passions  of  the  soul 
With  linked  hands,  like  maids  of  Helicon, 
Accord  his  power  in  faultless  harmonies. 
Greece  lives  for  ever  in  his  splendid  verse, 
Which,  should  her  relics  utter  ruins  lie, 
Could  bound  her  glory  with  immortal  lines. 
Fitting  that  he  who  lived  and  sang  of  her 
Should  breathe  his  life  out  on  her  lovely  shore  ! 
Wave-beaten  Missolonghi,  it  is  thou 
That  hold'st  the  parting  secrets  of  that  soul 
Not    walled    like    thee,    with    strength,    but   like 

thyself 
Beaten  forever  by  the  mighty  sea  ! 


380  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


MARY  ELIZABETH  BLAKE. 

[Born  in  Ireland,  1840.  Author,  among  other  volumes,  of  Poems, 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &•  Co.,  Boston,  1882;  Verses  along  the 
Way,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  1890  ;  A  Summer  Holiday  in 
Europe,  Lee  &  Shepard,  Boston,  1890.] 

A  DEAD  SUMMER. 

WHAT  lacks  the  summer  ? 

Not  roses  blowing, 

Nor  tall  white  lilies  with  fragrance  rife, 
Nor  green  things  gay  with  the  bliss  of  growing, 

Nor  glad  things  drunk  with  the  wine  of  life, 
Nor  flushing  of  clouds  in  blue  skies  shining, 

Nor  soft  wind  murmurs  to  rise  and  fall, 
Nor  birds  for  singing,  nor  vines  for  twining — 

Three  little  buds  1  miss,  no  more, 

That  blossomed  last  year  at  my  garden  door, — 
And  that  is  all. 

What  lacks  the  summer  ? 

Not  leaves  a-quiver 

With  arrows  of  light  from  the  land  of  dawn, 
Nor  drooping  of  boughs  by  the  dimpling  river, 

Nor  nodding  of  grass  on  the  windy  lawn, 
Nor  tides  upswept  upon  silver  beaches, 

Nor  rustle  of  leaves  on  tree-tops  tall, 
Nor  dapple  of  shade  in  woodland  reaches, — 

Life  pulses  gladly  on  vale  and  hill, 

But  three  little  hearts  that  I  love  are  still, — 
And  that  is  all 

What  lacks  the  summer? 

O  light  and  savour, 

And  message  of  healing  the  world  above  ! 
Gone  is  the  old-time  strength  and  flavour, 

Gone  is  the  old-time  peace  and  love  ! 
Gone  is  the  bloom  of  the  shimmering  meadow. 


MA  R  \  ELIZA  RE  TH  BLAKE.  38 1 

Music  of  birds,  as  they  sweep  and  fall, — 
All  the  great  world  is  dim  with  shadow, 
Because  no  longer  mine  eyes  can  see 
The  eyes  that  made  summer  and  life  for  me, — 
And  that  is  all. 


GOING  AND  COMING. 

FORWARD ! 
"On  to  the  front ! "  the  order  ran, 

"On  to  the  front  the  foe  to  meet," 
They  shouldered  their  muskets,  boy  and  man, 

And  marched  away  through  the  city  street. 
Banners  flying  and  drum-beat  proud, 

Marshalled  them  on  through  the  noisy  way, 
But  many  a  heart  in  the  waiting  crowd 

Was  faint  and  sick  with  its  fear  that  day. 

Forward  ! 
"  On  to  the  front ; "  'twas  a  fearful  call 

With  Death  before  to  beckon  them  on ; 
Who  would  be  first  on  the  field  to  fall  ? 

Who  would  be  left  when  the  rest  were  gone  1 

Was  this  the  last  time,  full  and  free, 

To  hear  the  pulse  of  the  city  roll, 
Before  they  gasped  in  their  agony 

With  the  last  deep  throb  of  the  parting  soul  ? 

Forward  ! 
On  to  the  front !     From  peace  and  life, 

From  wife  and  child  with  their  clinging  hands, 
To  the  shock  and  crash  of  the  fearful  strife, 

To  the  unknown  grave  in  the  southern  lands. 
Yet  firm  as  the  beat  of  their  martial  feet, 

And  strong  with  a  freeman's  strength  of  soul, 
They  marched  away 'through  the  crowded  street 

With  quiver  of  trumpet  and  loud  drum  roll, 

Forward ! 


382  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Home! 
With  silken  folds  of  the  banner  torn 

In  gaps,  with  the  sunlight  streaming  through, 
The  bayonets  gleam  from  the  muskets  worn, 

And  stain  and  dust  on  the  army-blue ; 
Back  from  the  battlefields  far  away, 

Their  medals  of  bronze  on  check  and  brow, 
They  came  through  the  city  streets  to-day, — 

Our  Legion  of  Honour  we  call  them  no\v. 

Home! 
When  the  word  went  down  to  that  hell  of  war, 

And  the  fetid  walls  where  the  prisoners  slept, 
God  !  what  a  shout  rang  near  and  far 

And  up  to  the  listening  heavens  swept ! 
Eyes  that  were  dry  'mid  the  groans  of  death, 

Hearts  unawed  by  the  bullet  and  sword, 
Grew  dim  and  soft  with  the  whispered  breath, 

And  melted  in  tears  at  the  well-known  word. 

Home! 
Many  had  reached  it  long  ago, 

Not  the  place  that  our  hearts  had  planned, — 
The  fireside  rest  that  their  feet  should  know 

Who  came  to  us  back  from  the  direful  land, — 
But  a  sweeter  rest — which  never  shall  cease — 

Than  the  deepest  depths  of  our  love  could  give, 
Where  God  Himself  is  the  light  of  Peace, 

And  the  ransomed  soldiers  of  freedom  live. 

Home ! 
Whether  on  earth  or  whether  in  heaven, 

Where  lips  may  touch  or  prayers  arise, 
Honour  and  praise  to  their  names  be  given 

Under  the  sun  or  above  the  skies. 
Till  the  jubilant  air  shall  rise  and  swell 

With  strong  full  shouts  of  the  heart's  delight,  • 
Welcome  with  clangour  of  cannon  and  bell 

The  bronze-brown  heroes  of  field  and  fight 

Home! 


MARY  ELIZABETH  BLAKE.  383 


HEARTSICK! 

"Is  it  the  tramp  of  men  to  battle 

Breaking  across  the  silent  night, 
The  stinging  roll  of  the  musket's  rattle, 

The  far-off  shock  of  the  deadly  fight  ? 
Is  it  the  moan  of  strong  men  dying, 

Coming  across  the  dreary  plain  1 " 
"  Mother,  only  the  south  wind  sighing, 

And  the  falling  drops  of  the  summer  rain." 

"  Listen  again  !  where  the  hill  lies  glooming, 

Flinging  its  shadow  across  the  grass, 
Did  you  not  hear  the  cannon  booming, 

And  clash  of  steel  from  the  rocky  pass  ? 
Now  drawing  nearer,  now  retreating, 

Are  there  not  cries  on  the  village  green  1 " 
Only  the  surf  on  the  dark  rocks  beating, 

And  the  roll  of  the  thunder  dropped  between. 

Alas  and  alas  !  when  the  heart  is  fearing, 

Every  shadow  has  life  and  weight, 
Even  the  wind,  to  the  spirit's  hearing, 

Comes  like  the  call  of  a  beckoning  Fate  ! 
You,  O  child,  in  your  spring-time  gladness, 

Only  the  wrath  of  the  tempest  see, — 
I,  with  a  longing,  sick  heart  sadness, 

What  does  the  south  wind  say  to  me  1 

That  some  place  where  its  breath  is  falling 

He  is  fighting, — perhaps  is  slain  ; 
That  some  place  where  its  voice  is  calling 

He  is  moaning  my  name  in  vain ; 
Somewhere  under  its  lonely  sighing, 

In  broken  slumber  or  deadly  strife, 
In  camp  or  field  is  the  true  heart  lying 

That  calls  you  "darling"  and  calls  me  "wife." 


384  YQUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

You  and  I,  my  little  one,  nesting 

Safe  by  his  hearthstone,  far  away, — 
What  shall  we  do  for  our  soldier's  resting, — 

What  can  we  do  but  wait  and  pray. 
Through  all  the  changes  life  may  ring  us, 

Waiting  and  praying  with  trust  and  might, 
But  most  of  all  when  the  south  winds  bring  us 

A  message  from  him,  as  they  do  to-night. 


HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 

[Born  at  New  York  City,  8th  March  1859.  Author  of  Oberon  and 
Puck,  brought  out  by  Cassell  &  Company,  with  whose  kind 
permission  the  poems  given  are  quoted.] 

THE  ACCOLADE. 


Now  filled  was  all  the  sum 

Of  serving  years,  and  past,  for  ever  past, 

All  duties,  all  delights,  of  young  esquires : 

And  to  the  altar  and  the  hour  at  last — 

The  hour,  the  altar,  of  his  dear  desires — 

Clear-shriven  and  whitely  clad  the  youth  was  come. 

II. 

Full  many  a  squire  was  in  that  household  bred 
To  arms  and  honour  and  sweet  courtesy, 
Who  wore  that  sojourn's  fragrant  memory 
As  amulet  in  after-battles  dread  ; 
And  meeting  in  kings'  houses  joyously, 
Or,  wounded,  in  the  sedge  beside  a  lake, 
Such  men  were  bounden  brothers,  for  the  sake 
Of  the  blade  that  knighted  and  the  board  that  fed. 


HELEN  GRA  Y  CONE.  385 

in. 

To  eastward  builded  was  the  oratory: 

There  all  the  warm  spring  night, — while  in  the  wood 

The  buds  were  swelling  in  the  brooding  dark, 

And  dreaming  of  a  lordlier  dawn  the  lark, — 

Paced  to  and  fro  the  youth  and  dreamed  on  glory, 

And  watched  his  arms  :  Great  knights  in  mailed  hood 

On  steeds  of  stone  sat  ranged  along  the  aisle, 

And  frowned  upon  the  aspirant :     "  Who  is  he 

Would  claim  the  name  and  join  the  company 

Of  slayers  of  soldans  swart  and  dragons  grim, 

Not  ignorant  of  wanded  wizards'  guile, 

And  deserts  parched,  and  waters  wide  to  swim  ?  " 

He  halted  at  the  challenge  of  the  dead. 

Anon,  in  twilight,  fancy  feigned  a  smile 

To  curve  the  carven  lips,  as  though  they  said, 

"  Oh  welcome,  brother,  of  whom  the  world  hath  need  ! 

Ere  the  recorded  deed 
We  trembled,  hoped,  and  doubted,  even  as  thou." 

And  therewithal  he  lifted  up  his  brow, 
Uplift  from  hesitance  and  humble  feai1, 
And  saw  how  with  the  splendour  of  the  sun 
The  glimmering  oriel  blossomed  rosy-clear; 
And  lo,  the  Vigil  of  the  Arms  was  done ! 


IV. 

Now,  mass  being  said,  before  the  priest  he  brought 
That  glittering  prophecy,  his  untried  sword. 
In  some  mysterious  forge  the  blade  was  wrought, 
By  shadowy  arms  of  force  that  baffle  thought 
Wrought  curiously  in  the  dim  under- world ; 
And  all  along  the  sheath  processions  poured, 

Thronged  shapes  of  earth's  weird  morn 

Ere  yet  the  hammer  of  Thor  was  downward  hurled ; 

Not  less  it  had  for  hilt  the  Cross  of  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  must  thereby  in  battle  aye  be  borne. 

2  i: 


386  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


v. 

Cool-sprinkled  with  the  consecrated  wave, 

That  blade  was  blessed,  that  it  should  strike  to  save  • 

And  next,  pure  hands  of  youth  in  hands  of  age 

Were  held  upon  the  page 
Of  the  illuminate  missal,  full  of  prayers, — 
Rich  fields,  where  through  the  river  of  souls  has  rushed 
Long,  long,  to  have  its  passion  held  and  hushed 
In  the  breast  of  that  calm  sea  whereto  it  fares  : 
And  steadfastly  the  aspirant  vow  did  plight 
To  bear  the  sword,  or  break  it,  for  the  Right, 
And  living  well  his  life,  yet  hold  it  light,— 
Yea,  for  that  sovereign  sake  a  worthless  thing. 


VI. 

Thereon  a  troop  of  maids  began  to  bring, 
With  flutter  as  of  many-coloured  doves, 
The  hauberk  that  right  martially  did  ring, 

And  weight  of  linked  gloves, 
And  helmet  plumed,  and  spurs  ablaze  with  gold. 
Each  gave  in  gracious  wise  her  guiding  word, 
As  bade  or  fresh  caprice,  or  usance  old : 
As  Ride  thou  sivift  by  golden  Honour  spurred, 
Or  Be  thou  faithful,  fortunate  and  bold. 
But  scarce  for  his  own  heart  the  aspirant  heard. 


VII. 

And  armed,  all  save  the  head, 

He  kneeled  before  his  master  grey  and  good. 

Like  some  tall,  noble,  ancient  ship  he  stood, 

That  once  swept  o'er  the  tide 
With  banners,  and  freight  of  heroes  helmeted 
For  worthy  war,  and  music  breathing  pride. 

Now,  the  walled  cities  won, 
And  storms  withstood,  and  all  her  story  spun, 


HELEN  GRA  Y  CONE.  387 

She  towers  in  sand  beside  some  sunny  bay, 

Whence  in  the  silvery  morn  new  barks  go  sailing  gay. 

So  stately  stood  the  Knight : 

And  with  a  mighty  arm,  and  with  a  blade 

Reconsecrate  at  fiery  fonts  of  fight, 

He  on  the  bowed  neck  gave  the  accolade. 

Yet  kneeled  the  youth  bewildered,  for  the  stroke 
Seemed  severance  sharp  of  kind  companionships ; 
And  the  strange  pain  of  parting  in  him  woke ; 
And  as  at  midnight  when  a  branch  down  dips 
By  sudden-swaying  tempest  roughly  stirred, 

Some  full-fledged  nested  bird, 
Being  shaken  forth,  though  fain  of  late  to  fly, 
Now  flickers  with  weak  wing  and  wistful  cry, — 

So  flickered  his  desires 

'Twixt  knighthood,  and  delights  and  duties  of  esquires. 
But  even  as  with  the  morrow  will  uprise, 

Assured  by  azure  skies, 

The  bird,  and  dart,  and  swim  in  buoyant  air, — 
Uprose  his  soul,  and  found  the  future  free  and  fair  ! 


VIII. 

And  girded  with  Farewell  and  with  Godspeed 

He  sprang  upon  his  steed. 

And  forth  he  fared  along  the  broad  bright  way ; 
And  mild  was  the  young  sun,  and  wild  the  breeze, 
That  seemed  to  blow  to  lands  no  eye  had  seen  : 
And  Pentecost  had  kindled  all  the  trees 
To  tremulous  thin  whispering  flames  of  green, 
And  given  to  each  a  sacred  word  to  say  ; 
And  wind-fine  voices  of  the  wind-borne  birds 
Were  ever  woven  in  among  their  words. 
Soft  brooding  o'er  the  hamlet  where  it  lay, 
The  circling  hills  stood  stoled  with  holy  white, 
For  orchards  brake  to  blossom  in  the  night ; 


:8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  all  the  morning  was  one  blown  blue  flower, 

And  all  the  world  was  at  its  perfect  hour. 

So  fared  he  gladly,  and  his  spirit  yearned 

To  do  some  deed  fit  for  the  deep  new  day. 

And  on  the  broad  bright  way  his  armour  burned, 

And  showed  him  still,  a  shifting,  waning  star, 

To  sight  that  followed  far. 

Till  last,  the  fluctuant  wood  the  flash  did  whelm, 
That  flood-like  rolled  in  light  and  shadow  o'er  his  helm. 


IX. 

I  know  not  more  :  nor  if  that  helm  did  rust 
In  weed  of  some  drear  wilderness  down-thrust, 

Where  in  the  watches  lone 
Heaven's  host  beheld  him  lying  overthrown, 
While  God  yet  judged  him  victor,  God  whose  laws 
Note  not  the  event  of  battle,  but  the  cause. 
I  know  not  more  :  nor  if  the  nodding  prize 
Of  lustrous  laurels  e'er  that  helm  did  crown, 
While  God  yet  judged  him  vanquished,  God  whose  eyes 
Saw  how  his  Demon  smote  his  Angel  down 
In  some  forgotten  field  and  left  him  low. 
Only  the  perfect  hour  is  mine  to  know. 


X. 

0  you  who  forth  along  the  highway  ride, 

Whose  quest  the  whispering  wood  shall  close  around, 
Be  all  adventure  high  that  may  betide, 
And  gentle  all  enchantments  therein  found  ! 

1  would  my  song  were  as  a  trumpet-sound 

To  nerve  you  and  speed,  and  weld  its  notes  with  power 
To  the  remembrance  of  your  perfect  hour : 
To  ring  again  and  again,  and  to  recall 
With  the  might  of  music,  all : 
The  prescience  proud,  the  morning  aspiration, 
But  most  the  unuttered  vow,  the  inward  consecration  ! 


HELEN  GRA  Y  CONE.  389 


A  SONG  OF  FAILURE. 

WITH  green  swords  pointing  to  heaven, 
When  the  dawn  flushed,  glad  to  see, 

Like  three  gay  knights  in  the  garden 
Were  flaunting  the  Fleurs-de-lis. 

And  the  plumes  of  two  were  purple, 

The  colour  of  hope  and  pride, 
And  the  last  was  snowy-crested, 

As  a  maiden  soul  should  ride. 

But  a  wind  from  the  west  brought  warning, 
And  at  noontide,  a  sound  of  power, 

We  heard  on  the  roofs  loud  marching 
The  steady  feet  of  the  shower. 

And  the  sharp  green  swords  were  broken, 
When  the  dusk  fell,  sad  to  see ; 

And  low,  ah  low,  were  lying 
The  plumes  of  the  Fleurs-de-lis  ! 


THE   DANDELIONS. 

UPON  a  showery  night  and  still, 

Without  a  sound  of  warning, 
A  trooper  band  surprised  the  hill, 

And  held  it  in  the  morning. 
We  were  not  waked  by  bugle-notes, 

No  cheer  our  dreams  invaded, 
And  yet  at  dawn,  their  yellow  coats 

On  the  green  slopes  paraded. 


390  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

We  careless  folk  the  deed  forgot ; 

Till  one  day,  idly  walking, 
We  marked  upon  the  self-same  spot 

A  crowd  of  veterans  talking. 
They  shook  their  trembling  heads  and  grey 

With  pride  and  noiseless  laughter ; 
When,  well-a-day  !  they  blew  away, 

And  ne'er  were  heard  of  after  ! 


E  MEL  IE. 

"  0  chaste  goddess  of  the  icodes  yrenc, 
I  am  (thou  icost)  yet  of  thy  compagnie, 
A  mayde,  and  love  hunting  and  venerie, 
And  for  to  walke  in  the  wodes  wilde." 

Chaucer's  "Knightes  Talc." 

SHE  greets  the  lily  on  the  stalk; 

She  shakes  the  soft  hair  from  her  brows ; 
She  wavers  down  the  garden  walk 

Beneath  the  bloomy  boughs. 
She  is  the  slenderest  of  maids ; 

Her  fair  face  strikes  you  like  a  star ; 
The  great  stone  tower  her  pathway  shades — 
The  prison  where  the  Princes  are. 
Across  the  dewy  pleasance  falls, 

All  in  the  clear  May  morning  light, 
The  shadow  of  those  evil  walls 
That  look  so  black  by  night. 

She  is  so  glad,  so  wild  a  thing, 

Her  heart  sings  like  the  lark  all  day ; 
The  unhooded  falcon  on  the  wing 

Is  not  more  freely  gay. 
In  sun  and  wind  doth  she  rejoice, 

And  blithely  drinks  the  airy  blue, 
Yet  loves  the  solemn  pines  that  voice 

The  grief  she  never  knew. 


HELEN  GRA  Y  CONE.  391 

In  silence  of  the  woods  apart 

Her  sure  swift  step  the  Dryads  know ; 
Full  oft  she  speeds  the  bounding  hart, 

And  draws  the  bending  bow. 
Fine  gleams  across  her  spirit  dart, 

And  never  living  soul,  saith  she, 
Could  make  her  choose  for  aye  to  lose 

Her  own  sweet  company. 

But  sometimes,  when  the  moon  is  bright, 

So  bright  it  almost  drowns  the  stars, 
She  thinks  how  some  have  lost  delight 

Behind  the  prison  bars. 
It  makes  her  sad  a  little  space, 

And  casts  a  shadow  on  her  look, 
As  branches  in  a  woody  place 

Do  flicker  on  a  brook. 


Last  night  she  had  a  dream  of  men, 

Dark  faces  strange  with  keen  desire  ; 
She  heard  the  blaring  trumpet  then, 

She  saw  the  shields  strike  fire. 
The  pomp  of  plumes,  the  crack  of  spears, 

Beyond  her  happy  circle  lie  ; 
Thank  Heaven  !  she  has  but  eighteen  years, 
And  loves  the  daisies  and  the  sky. 
And  yet  across  her  garden  falls, 

All  in  the  clear  May  morning  light, 
The  shadow  of  the  prison  walls, 
That  look  so  black  by  night. 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


ELSINORE. 

IT  is  strange  in  Elsinore 

Since  the  day  King  Hamlet  died. 

All  the  hearty  sports  of  yore, 

Sledge  and  skate,  are  laid  aside ; 
Stilled  the  ancient  mirth  that  rang, 

Boisterous,  down  the  fire-lit  halls ; 
They  forgot,  at  Yule,  to  hang 

Berried  holly  on  the  walls. 
Claudius  lets  the  mead  still  flow 

For  the  blue-eyed  thanes  that  love  it ; 

But  they  bend  their  brows  above  it, 
And  for  ever  to  and  fro, 

Round  the  board  dull  murmurs  go  : 
"  It  is  strange  in  Elsinore 

Since  the  day  King  Hamlet  died." 

And  a  swarm  of  courtiers  flit, 

New  in  slashed  and  satined  trim, 
With  their  freshly-fashioned  wit 

And  their  littleness  of  limb, — 
Flit  about  the  stairways  wide, 

Till  the  pale  Prince  Hamlet  smiles, 
As  he  walks,  at  twilight  tide, 

Through  the  galleries  and  the  aisles. 

For  to  him  the  castle  seems — 

This  old  castle,  Elsinore — 
Like  a  thing  built  up  of  dreams  ; 

And  the  king's  a  mask,  no  more  ; 
And  the  courtiers  seems  but  flights 

Of  the  painted  butterflies  ; 
And  the  arras,  wrought  with  fights, 

Grows  alive  before  his  eyes. 


HELEN  GRA  Y  CONE.  393 

Lo,  its  giant  shapes  of  Danes, 

As  without  a  wind  it  waves, 
Live  more  nobly  than  his  thanes, 

Sullen  carpers,  ale-fed  slaves  ! 

In  the  flickering  of  the  fires, 

Through  his  sleep  at  night  there  pass 
Gay  conceits  and  young  desires — 

Faces  out  of  memory's  glass, 
Fragments  of  the  actor's  art, 

Student's  pleasures,  college  broils, 
Poesies  that  caught  his  heart, 

Chances  with  the  fencing  foils ; 
Then  he  listens  oftentimes 

With  his  boyhood's  simple  glee, 
To  dead  Yorick's  quips  and  rhymes, 

"Leaning  on  his  father's  knee. 
To  that  mighty  hand  he  clings, 

Tender  love  that  stern  face  charms  ; 
All  at  once  the  casement  rings 

As  with  strength  of  angry  arms. 
From  the  couch  he  lifts  his  head, 

With  a  shudder  and  a  start ; 
All  the  fires  are  embers  red, 

And  a  weight  is  on  his  heart.  , 

It  is  strange  in  Elsinore. 

Sure  some  marvel  cometh  soon  ! 

Underneath  the  icy  moon 
Footsteps  pat  the  icy  floor ; 
Voices  haunt  the  midnights  bleak, 

When  the  wind  goes  singing  keen ; 
And  the  hound,  once  kept  so  sleek, 

Slinks  and  whimpers  and  grows  lean; 
And  the  shivering  sentinels, 

Timorous  on  their  lonesome  round, 
Starting  count  the  swinging  bells, 

Starting  at  the  hollow  sound  ; 


394  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  the  pine-trees  chafe  and  roar, 

Though  the  snow  would  keep  them  still. 
In  the.  state  there's  somewhat  ill ; 

It  is  strange  in  Elsinore. 


TO-DA  Y. 

VOICE,  with  what  emulous  fire  thou  singest  free  hearts 

of  old  fashion, 

English  scorners  of  Spain,  sweeping  the  blue  sea-way, 
Sing  me  the  daring   of   life  for  life,  the  magnanimous 

passion 
Of  man  for  man  in  the  mean  populous  streets  of  To-day ! 

Hand,  with  what  colour  and  power  thou  could'st  show, 

in  the  ring  hot-sanded, 

Brown  Bestiarius  holding  the  lean  tawn  tiger  at  bay, 
Paint  me  the  wrestle  of  Toil  with  the  wild-beast  Want, 

bare-handed ; 
Shadow  me  forth  a  soul  steadily  facing  To-day  ! 


INA  D.  COOLBRITH. 

[Born  in  Springfield,  Illinois.  Author  of  Perfect  Day,  and  other 
Poems,  published  in  San  Francisco  in  1881.  The  poem  quoted 
is  from  the  Century  Magazine.] 

THE  POET. 

HE  walks  with  God  upon  the  hills ! 

And  sees,  each  morn  the  World  arise 

New-bathed  in  light  of  paradise. 
He  hears  the  laughter  of  her  rills, 


INA  D.  COOLBRITH.  395 

He  melodies  of  many  voices, 

And  greets  her  while  his  heart  rejoices. 
She  to  his  spirit  undefiled, 
Makes  answer  as  a  little  child ; 

Unveiled  before  his  eyes  she  stands, 

And  gives  her  secrets  to  his  hands. 


DANSKE  CAROLINA  DANDRIDGE. 

[Born  in  Copenhagen,  Denmark,  circa  1858.  Author  of  Joy, 
published  in  1888  by  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  with  whose  kind 
permission  the  poems  quoted  are  given.] 


DESIRE. 

AN    APRIL    IDYL. 

COME,  dear  Desire,  and  walk  with  me ; 
We'll  gather  sweets,  and  rob  the  bee ; 
Come,  leave  the  dimness  of  your  room, 
We'll  watch,  how  since  the  morning  rain 
The  spider  sitteth  at  her  loom, 
To  weave  her  silken  nets  again. 
I  know  a  field  where  bluets  blow, 
Like  frost  from  fingers  of  the  night, 
And  in  a  sheltered  coppice  grow 
Arbutus  trailers,  blush  and  white. 

She  leaves  the  room  and  walks  with  me 
Where  dance  the  leaflets  airily  ; 
Across  the  stile  and  o'er  the  grass, 
And  down  the  shaded  copse  we  pass. 
What  sweeter  bliss  beneath  the  sun 
Than  through  the  wooded  ways  to  go 
With  her  whose  heart  is  almost  won, 
And  let  the  fulness  overflow  ! 


396  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Her  voice  is  ringing  clear  and  blithe, — 
I  mark  her  motions,  free  and  lithe  ; 
Sometimes  the  briers  that  lift  her  dress 
Reveal  the  ankle's  gracefulness. 
The  flowers,  on  which  she  will  not  tread, 
Pay  homage  with  each  nodding  head, 
As  though  the  Lady  May,  their  queen, 
Were  lightly  pacing  o'er  the  green. 

The  bluebird  to  my  suit  gives  heed ; 
The  wood-thrush  warbles  me  good-speed  ; 
And  every  bird  in  every  tree, 
That  peeps  at  her  and  peers  at  me, 
Sings  loud  encouragement  and  long, 
And  bids  us  welcome  in  his  song. 

Kind  stones,  I  thank  you  for  your  grace, 
I  bless  each  wet  and  marshy  place ; 
Low  pile  of  logs  and  fallen  fence, 
I  owe  ye  twain  a  recompense, 
With  prostrate  tree  and  matted  vine  ; 
Each  bar  that  gives  occasion  sweet 
To  hold  her  supple  hand  in  mine, 
And  teach  her  where  to  place  her  feet. 

See,  my  Desire,  the  mossy  nook 
Where  grows  the  pink  anemone  ; 
I'll  kindly  lift  you  o'er  the  brook, 
And  'neath  the  dropping  dog-wood  tree 
We'll  sit  and  watch  the  mating  birds, 
And  put  their  wooing  into  words. 

O  downcast  eyes  !    O  tender  glow  ! 

O  little  hand  that  trembles  so ! 

O  throbbing  heart  and  fluttering  breast ! 

O  timid  passion,  half  confessed  ! 

We  hear  and  scarcely  know  we  hear 

The  red-bird  whistle  bold  and  clear  ; 


DANSKE  CAROLINA  DANDRIDGE.         397 

Beneath  the  blooming  dog-wood  bough 
The  moments  pass,  we  know  not  how, 
Till  day  is  on  her  burning  pyre, 
And  I  have  won  my  heart's  Desire. 


PEGASUS. 

O  STEEP  a  poet  in  the  sun, 

And  bathe  a  singer  in  the  blue, 
And  bring,  to  solace  such  an  one, 

Fresh,  honeyed  draughts  of  clover  dew  ! 
Then  let  a  song  for  soothing  float 
From  out  the  hermit  thrush's  throat. 
Upon  a  mountain  side  apart, 

Where  blows  no  breath  of  earthly  care, 
There  let  him  ease  his  gentle  heart, 

"  And  drink  him  drunk  with  mountain  air. 
Perchance  before  the  day  be  past, 
The  winged  horse  may  come  at  last, 
And  lightly  curvet  o'er  the  hill, 
Then  stand  to  learn  the  master's  will. 
Or  if  he  wait  till  comes  the  night, 
Until  the  lady  moon  arise, 
And  sleepy  starlets  blink  their  eyes, 
And  whip-poor-wills  begin  to  call, 
There'll  be  such  rambles  through  the  skies  ; 
Such  antics  on  his  upward  flight ; 
Such  caracoles  fantastical ; 
Such  circlings  wild  and  swift  and  strong, 
As  ne'er  were  set  in  mortal  song  ! 

O  Pegasus  !  if  I  might  be 
Upon  the  mountain  slope  with  thee  : 
And  might  I  share  thy  sweeping  flight, 
And  gambols  in  the  mystic  light ; 
Or  through  the  airy  pastures  wind, 
With  speed  that  leaves  the  breeze  behind, 
To  join  the  starry  company, 
'Twere  happiness  enough  for  me. 


YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A  DAINTY  FOP. 
So  jaunty,  free  and  debonair, 
And  winning  welcome  everywhere, 
A  dainty  fop  has  passed  me  by  ! 
I  did  not  see,  but  felt  him  nigh, 
And  though  he  dared  to  kiss  my  cheek, 
He  did  not  speak,  he  did  not  speak. 

Shall  I  confess,  beneath  the  rose, 

A  secret  you  must  ne'er  disclose, 

That  almost  every  summer  day 

This  lover  kisses  me  in  play  1 

But  whence  he  comes,  or  where  he  goes 

No  mortal  knows,  no  mortal  knows. 

A  cultured  taste  in  him  I  find, 
And  proof  of  an  aesthetic  mind  ; 
He  winnows  first  the  clover  fields, 
And  next  the  rose  aroma  yields ; 
Now  who  can  tell  me  from  the  scent, 
Which  way  he  went,  wh'ich  way  he  went  ? 

A  connoisseur  of  rich  perfumes, 
To-day  he  steals  from  lilac  blooms ; 
To-morrow  leaves  the  garden  belles, 
And  flies  to  woodbine-scented  dells ; 
Who  could  resist  the  sighing  swain, 
Nor  kiss  again,  nor  kiss  again  ? 

Like  Psyche,  in  my  arbours  green 

I  wait  for  him  I  ne'er  have  seen  ; 

His  fragrant  breath  betrays  him  nigh, 

His  fragrant  breath  and  gentle  sigh, 

As  though  a  burden  on  his  breast 

Was  ne'er  confessed,  was  ne'er  confessed  ! 

To  none  is  this  gay  rover  true ; 

He  charms  each  day  with  odours  new  ; 

But  when,  where  hides  the  partridge-vine 

He  finds  the  luscious  eglantine, 

And  when  for  her  he  leaves  the  rest, 

I  love  him  best,  T  love  him  best. 


DANSKE  CAROLINA  DANDRIDGE.         399 

THE  DEAD  MOON. 
i. 

WE  are  ghost-ridden : 

Through  the  deep  night 
Wanders  a  spirit, 

Noiseless  and  white. 

Loiters  not,  lingers  not,  knoweth  not  rest ; 
Ceaselessly  haunting  the  East  and  the  West. 
She,  whose  undoing  the  ages  have  wrought, 
Moves  on  to  the  time  of  God's  rhythmical  thought. 
In  the  dark,  swinging  sea, 

As  she  speedeth  through  space, 
She  reads  her  pale  image  ; 

The  wounds  are  agape  on  her  face. 
She  sees  her  grim  nakedness 

Pierced  by  the  eyes 
Of  the  spirits  of  God 

In  their  flight  through  the  skies. 
(Her  wounds  they  are  jnany  and  hollow.) 
The  Earth  turns  and  wheels  as  she  flies, 
And  this  Spectre,  this  Ancient,  must  follow. 

il. 
When,  in  the  aeons, 

Had  she  beginning  ? 
What  is  her  story  1 

What  was  her  sinning? 
Do  the  ranks  of  the  Holy  Ones 

Know  of  her  crime  ? 
Does  it  loom  in  the  mists 

Of  the  birthplace  of  Time  ? 
The  stars,  do  they  speak  of  her 

Under  their  breath, 
"  Will  this  Wraith  be  for  ever 

Thus  restless  in  death  ? " 
On,  through  immensity, 

Sliding  and  stealing, 
On  through  infinity, 

Nothing  revealing. 


400  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

in. 

I  see  the  fond  lovers  : 

They  walk  in  her  light : 
They  charge  the  "  soft  maiden  " 

To  bless  their  love-plight. 
Does  she  laugh  in  her  place, 
As  she  glideth  through  space  ? 
Does  she  laugh  in  her  orbit  with  never  a  sound  1 

That  to  her,  a  dead  body, 
With  nothing  but  rents  in  her  round ; 
Blighted  and  marred ; 
Wrinkled  and  scarred ; 
Barren  and  cold ; 
Wizened  and  old  ; 
That  to  her  should  be  told, 
That  to  her  should  be  sung 
The  yearning  and  burning  of  them  that  are  young  ? 

iv.    ' 

Our  Earth  that  is  young, 

That  is  throbbing  with  life, 
Has  fiery  upheavals, 

Has  boisterous  strife ; 

But  she  that  is  dead  has  no  stir,  breathes  no  air ; 
She  is  calm,  she  is  voiceless,  in  lonely  despair. 

v. 

We  dart  through  the  void  : 

We  have  cries,  we  have  laughter  : 
The  phantom  that  haunts  us 

Comes  silently  after. 
This  Ghost-lady  follows, 

Though  none  hear  her  tread  ; 
On,  on,  we  are  flying, 

Still  tracked  by  our  Dead  ; 
By  this  white  awful  Mystery, 
Haggard,  and  dead. 


MARGARET\TA    WADE\  DELAND.  401 

MARGARET[TA  WADE]  DELAND. 

[Born  in  Alleghany,  Pennsylvania,  23d  February  1857.  Author  of 
The  Old  Garden  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston  1886)  ;  John 
Ward,  Preacher  (Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1888)  ; 
Sidney  (Hsughton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  1891).] 

AFFAIRE  D' AMOUR. 

FOR  E.  W.  W. 

ONE  pale  November  day, 

Flying  Summer  paused, 

They  say : 

And  growing  bolder, 
O'er  rosy  shoulder 

Threw  to  her  lover  sxich  a  glance, 
That  Autumn's  heart  began  to  dance. 
(O  happy  lover !) 

A  leafless  peach-tree  bold 

Thought  for  him  she  smiled, 

I'm  told ; 

And,  stirred  by  love, 
His  sleeping  sap  did  move, 
Decking  each  naked  branch  with  green 
To  show  her  that  her  look  was  seen  ! 
(Alas  poor  lover !) 

But  Summer,  laughing,  fled, 
Nor  knew  he  loved  her  ! 

'Tis  said 

The  peach-tree  sighed, 
And  soon  he  gladly  died  : 
And  Autumn,  weary  of  the  chase, 
Came  on  at  Winter's  sober  pace 
(O  careless  lover  !) 


402  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

SUMMER. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

HIGH  on  the  crest  of  the  blossoming  grasses, 
Bending  and  swaying  with  face  toward  the  sky, 

Stirred  by  the  lightest  west  wind  as  it  passes, 
Hosts  of  the  silver- white  daisy -stars  lie  ! 

I,  looking  up  through  the  mist  of  the  flowers, 
I,  lying  low  on  the  earth  thrilled  with  June, 

Give  not  a  thought  to  the  vanishing  hours, 
Save  that  they  melt  into  twilight  too  soon  ! 

Blossoms  of  peaches  float  down  for  my  cover, — 
Snowflakes  that  blushed  to  be  kissed  by  the  sun, — 

Blossoms  of  apples  drift  over  and  over, — 

White  they  with  grief  that  their  short  day  is  done  ! 

Buttercup's  lanterns  are  lighted  about  me, 
Burly  red  clover's  warm  cheek  presses  mine; 

Powdery  bee  never  once  seems  to  doubt  me, 
Tipping  each  chalice  for  Summer's  new  wine  ! 

Tiny  white  butterflies  ("Brides"  children  name  them) 
Flicker  and  glimmer,  and  turn  in  their  flight; 

Surely  the  sunshine  suffices  to  tame  them, 
Close  to  my  hand  they  will  swing  and  alight. 

Small  timid  breezes  than  butterflies  shyer, 
Just  for  a  moment  soft  buffet  my  face, 

Then  fly  away  to  the  tree  tops  and  higher, 

Shaking  down  shadows  o'er  every  bright  space. 


LIFE. 

BY  one  great  Heart,  the  universe  is  stirred  : 

By  its  strong  pulse,  stars  climb  the  darkening  blue; 
It  throbs  in  each  fresh  sunset's  changing  hue, 

And  thrills  through  low  sweet  song  of  every  bird : 


MARGARET\TA    WADS']  DELAND.          403 

By  it,  the  plunging  blood  reds  all  men's  veins ; 
Joy  feels  that  Heart  against  his  rapturous  own, 
And  on  it,  Sorrow  breathes  her  sharpest  groan ; 

It  bounds  through  gladness  and  the  deepest  pains. 

Passionless  beating  through  all  Time  and  Space ; 
Relentless,  calm,  majestic  in  its  march, 
Alike,  though  Nature  shake  heaven's  endless  arch, 

Or  man's  heart  break,  because  of  some  dead  face  ! 

'Tis  felt  in  sunshine  greening  the  soft  sod, 
In  children's  smiling,  as  in  mother's  tears  ; 
And,  for  strange  comfort,  through  the  aching  years, 

Men's  hungry  souls  have  named  that  great  Heart,  GOD  ! 


WHILE  SHEPHERDS  WATCHED  THEIR 
FLOCKS  B  Y  NIGHT, 

LIKE  small  curled  feathers  white  and  soft, 

The  little  clouds  went  by, 
Across  the  moon,  and  past  the  stars, 

And  down  the  western  sky  ! 
In  upland  pastures,  where  the  grass 

With  frosted  dew  was  white, 
Like  snowy  clouds  the  young  sheep  lay 

That  first,  best  Christmas  night. 

The  Shepherds  slept ;  and,  glimmering  faint, 

With  twist  of  thin  blue  smoke, 
Only  their  fire's  crackling  flames 

The  tender  silence  broke — 
Save  when  a  young  lamb  raised  his  head, 

Or,  when  the  night  wind  blew, 
A  nesting  bird  would  softly  stir 

Where  dusky  olives  grew  ; 

With  finger  on  her  solemn  lip 
Night  hushed  the  shadowy  earth 

And  only  stars  and  angels  saw 
The  little  Saviour's  birth. 


404  YO  UNGER  A  M ERIC  AN  POE  TS. 

Then  came  such  flash  of  silver  light 

Across  the  bending  skies, 
The  wondering  Shepherds  woke,  and  hid 

Their  frightened,  dazzled  eyes  ! 

And  all  their  gentle  sleepy  flock 

Looked  up,  then  slept  again, 
Nor  knew  the  light  that  dimmed  the  stars 

Brought  endless  peace  to  men — 
Nor  even  heard  the  gracious  words 

That  down  the  ages  ring — 
"  The  Christ  is  born  !  the  Lord  has  come, 

Good-will  on  earth  to  bring !  " 

Then  o'er  the  moonlit,  misty  fields, 

Dumb  with  the  world's  great  Joy, 
The  Shepherds  sought  the  white-walled  town, 

Where  lay  the  baby  boy — 
And  oh,  the  gladness  of  the  world, 

The  glory  of  the  skies, 
Because  the  longed-for  Christ  looked  up 

In  Mary's  happy  eyes  ! 


LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY. 

[Born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts,  1861.  The  poems  quoted  are  from 
Songs  at  the  Start  (1884,  Cupples,  TJpham  &  Co.,  Boston);  The 
White  Sail  (1887,  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston),  and  are 
published  by  special  permission  of  the  author.] 

TARPEIA. 

WOE  :  lightly  to  part  with  one's  soul  as  the  sea  with  its 

foam ! 
Woe  to  Tai'peia,  Tarpeia,  daughter  of  Rome  ! 

Lo,  now  it  was  night,  with  the  moon  looking  chill  as  she 

went : 
It  was  morn  when  the  innocent  stranger  strayed  into 

the  tent. 


L O  VISE  IMOGEN  G  VINE  Y.  405 

The  hostile  Sabini  were  pleased,  as  one  meshing  a  bird ; 
She  sang  for  them  there  in  the  ambush !     They  smiled 
as  they  heard. 

Her  sombre  hair  purpled  in  gleams,  as  she  leaned  to  the 

light ; 
All  day  she  had  idled  and  feasted,  and  now  it  was  night. 

The  chief  sat  apart,  heavy  browed,  brooding  elbow  on  knee; 
The  armlets  he  wore  were  thrice  royal,  and  wondrous  to 
see: 

Exquisite  artifice,  whorls  of  barbaric  design, 
Frost's  fixed  mimicry;  orbic  imaginings  fine 

In  sevenfold  coils  :  and  in  orient  glimmer  from  them, 
The  variform  voluble  swinging  of  gem  upon  gem. 

And  the- glory  thereof  sent  fever  and  fire  to  her  eye. 
'  I  had  never  such  trinkets ! '    She  sighed — like  a  lute  was 
her  sigh. 

'  Were  they  mine  at  the  plea,  were  they  mine  for  the 

token,  all  told, 
Now  the  citadel  sleeps,  now  my  father  the  keeper  is  old, 

'  If  I  go  by  the  path  I  know,  and  thou  folio  west  hard, 
If  yet  at  the  touch  of  Tarpeia  the  gates  be  unbarred  ? ' 

The  chief  trembled  sharply  for  joy,  then  drew  rein  on 

his  soul, 
'Of  all  this  arm  beareth,  Iswearl  will  cede  thee  the  whole.' 

And  up  from  the  nooks  of  the  camp,  the  hoarse  plaudit 

outdealt, 
The  bearded  Sabini  glanced  hotly,  and  vowed  as  they  knelt, 

Bare-stretching  the  wrists  that  bore  also  the  glowing  great 

boon : 
'  Yea  !  surely  as  over  us  shineth  the  lurid  low  moon, 

'  Not  alone  of  our  lord,  but  of  each  of  us  take  what  he  hath ! 
Too  poor  is  the  guerdon  if  thou  wilt  but  show  us  the  path.' 


406  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Her  nostril  upraised,  like  a  fawn's  on  the  arrowy  air, 
She  sped ;  in  a  serpentine  gleam  to  the  precipice  stair, 

They  climbed  in  her  traces,  they  closed  on  their  evil 

swift  star : 
She  bent  to  the  latches,  and  swung  the  huge  portal  ajar 

Repulsed  where  they  passed  her,  half-tearful  for  -wounded 

belief, 
'The    bracelets!'   she   pleaded.      Then    faced   her   the 

leonine  chief, 

And  answered  her:  'Even  as  I  promised,  maid-merchant, 

I  do.' 
Down  from  his  dark  shoulder  the  baubles  he  suddenly  drew. 

'  This  left  arm  shall  nothing  begrudge  thee.   Accept.    Find 

it  sweet. 
Give,  too,  O  my  brothers ! '    The  jewels  he  flung  at  her  feet, 

The  jewels  hard,  heavy ;  she  stooped  to  them,  flushing 

with  dread, 
But  the  shield  he  flung  after :  it  clanged  on  her  beautiful 

head. 

Like  the  Apennine  bells  when  the  villager's  warnings 

begin, 
Athwart  the  first  lull  broke  the  ominous  din  upon  din; 

With  a  '  Hail,  benefactress ! '     Upon  her  they  heaped 

in  their  zeal 
Death :  agate  and  iron,  death :  chrysoprase,  beryl  and 

steel. 

'Neath  the  outcry  of  scorn,  'neath  the  sinewy  tension  and 

hurl, 
The  moaning  died  slowly,  and  still  they  massed  over  the 

girl 

A  mountain  of  shields  !  and  the  gemmy  bright  tangle  in 

links 
A  torrent-like  gust, — pouring  out  on  the  grass  from  the 

chinks, 


L  O  VISE  IMOGEN  G  UINE  Y.  407 

Pyramidal  gold  !  the  sumptuous  monument  won 
By  the  deed  they  had  loved  her  for,  doing,  and  loathed 
her  for,  done. 

Such  was  the  wage  that  they  paid  her,  such,  the  acclaim  ; 
All    Rome  was  aroused  with  the  thunder   that  buried 
her  shame. 

On  surged  the  Sabini  to  battle.     O  you  that  aspire ! 
Tarpeia  the  traitor  had  fill  of  her  woman's  desire. 

Woe :  lightly  to  part  with  one's  soul  as  the  sea  with  its 

foam  ! 
Woe  to  Tarpeia,  Tarpeia,  daughter  of  Rome  ! 


A  PASSING  SONG. 

WHERE  thrums  the  bee  and  the  honeysuckle  hovers, 

Gather,-  golden  lasses,  to  a  roundelay; 

Dance,  dance,  yokefellows  and  lovers, 

Headlong  down  the  garden,  in  the  heart  of  May  ! 

Youth  is  slipping,  dripping,  pearl  on  pearl,  away. 

Dance  !    What  if  last  year  Winnie's  cheek  were  rounder  1 
Dance  !  tho'  that  foot,  Hal,  were  nimbler  yesterday. 
Spread  the  full  sail !  for  soon  the  ship  must  founder ; 
Flaunt  the  red  rose  !  soon  the  canker-worm  has  sway : 
Youth  is  slipping,  dripping,  pearl  on  pearl,  away. 

See  the  dial  shifting,  hear  the  night-birds  calling ! 
Dance,  you  starry  striplings  !  round  the  fountain-spray  : 
With  its  mellow  music  out  of  sunshine  falling, 
With  its  precious  waters  trickling  into  clay, 
Youth  is  slipping,  dripping,  pearl  on  pearl,  away. 


THE   WILD  RIDE. 

I  HEAR  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 
All  day,  the  commotion  of  sinewy  mane-tossing  horses; 
All  night,  from  their  cells,  the  importunate  tramping  and 
neighing. 


408  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Cowards  and  laggards  fall  back  ;  but  alert  to  the  saddle, 
Straight,    grim,  and    abreast,  vault   our    weather-worn, 

galloping  legion, 
With  a  stirrup-cup  each  to  the  one  gracious  woman  that 

loves  him. 

The    read   is  thro'   dolour    and   dread,  over    crags  and 

morasses; 
There  are  shapes  by  the  way,  there  are  things  that  appal 

or  entice  us : 
What  odds  ?     We  are  Knights,  and  our  souls  are  but 

bent  on  the  riding  ! 

I  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 
All  day,  the  commotion  of  sinewy,  mane-tossing  horses; 
All  night,  from  their  cells,  the  importunate  tramping  and 
neighing. 

We  spur  to  a  land  of  no  name,  out-racing  the  storm- 
wind; 

We  leap  to  the  infinite  dark,  like  the  sparks  from  the 
anvil. 

Thou  leadest,  O  God !  All's  well  with  Thy  troopers 
that  follow. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  HOUSE. 

BEYOND  the  cheat  of  Time,  here  where  you  died  you  live  ; 
You  pace  the  garden-walks  secure  and  sensitive ; 
You  linger  on  the  stair  :  Love's  lonely  pulses  leap  ! 
The  harpsichord  is  shaken,  the  dogs  look  up  from  sleep. 

Years  after,  and  years  after,  you  keep  your  heirdom  still, 
Your  winning  youth  about  you,  your  joyous  face  and  skill, 
Unvexed,  unapprehended,  with  waking  sense  adored ; 
And  still  the  house  is  happy  that  hath  so  dear  a  lord. 

To  every  quiet  inmate,  strong  in  the  cheer  you  brought, 
Your  name  is  as  a  spell  midway  of  speech  and  thought ; 
And  unto  whoso  knocks,  an  a  \ve-struck  visitor, 
The  sunshine  that  was  you  floods  all  the  open  door ! 


LOUISE  IMOGEN  GUINEY.  409 

AFTER  THE  STORM. 

i. 

Now  that  the  wind  is  tamed  and  broken, 

And  day  gleams  over  the  lea, 
Row,  row,  for  the  one  you  love 
Was  out  on  the  raging  sea  : 

Row,  row,  row, 

Sturdy  and  brave  o'er  the  treacherous  wave, 
Hope  like  a  beacon  before, 

Row,  sailor,  row 
Out  to  the  sea  from  the  shore  ! 

n. 
O  the  oar  that  was  once  so  merry, 

O  but  the  mournful  oar  ! 
Row,  row  ;  God  steady  your  arm 
To  the  dark  and  desolate  shore  : 

Row,  row,  row, 

With  your  own  love  dead,  and  her  wet  gold  head 
Laid  there  at  last  on  your  knee, 

Row,  sailor,  row, 
Back  to  the  shore  from  the  sea  ! 


THE  POET. 

LISTEN!  the  mother 
Croons  o'er  her  darling; 
Birds  to  the  summer 
Call  from  the  trees ; 
Sailors  in  chorus 
Chant  of  the  ocean  : 
The  Poet's  heart  singeth 
Songs  sweeter  than  these, 

Thy  lute,  gentle  lover, 
To  her  thou  ador'est; 
Ye  troubadours!  pseans 
For  princes  of  Guelph : 


410  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

But  Heaven's  own  harpers 
Breathe  not  in  their  music 
The  song  that  his  happy  heart 

Sings  to  itself ; 
The  changeless,  soft  song  that  it 

Sings  to  itself ! 


HELEN  JACKSON  [H.  H.]. 

[Born  18th  October  1831,  at  Amherst,  Massachusetts.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Helen  Maria  Fiske.  She  married,  first,  Captain 
E.  B.  Hunt,  U.S.A.  (28th  October  1852) ;  second,  Mr  William 
Sharpless  Jackson  (October  1875).  Died  in  California,  12th 
August  1885.  Author  of  Verses  (Boston,  1870);  Bits  of 
Travel  (Boston,  1870) ;  Bits  of  Talk  about  Home  Matters  (1873, 
Roberts  Brothers,  Boston);  Verses,  enlarged  (1874,  Roberts 
Brothers,  Boston);  Ramona  (1884);  A  Century  of  Dishonour, 
etc.,  etc.  The  poems  quoted  are  from  the  collected  edition  of 
her  poems,  published  by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  by  kind 
permission  of  that  firm.  ] 

A  CHRISTMAS  SYMPHONY. 


O  CHRISTMAS  stars!  your  pregnant  silentness, 
Mute  syllabled  in  rhythmic  light, 

Leads  on  to-night, 

And  beckons,  as  three  thousand  years  ago 
It  beckoning  led.     We  simple  shepherds,  know 

Little  we  can  confess, 
Beyond  that  we  are  poor,  and  creep 
And  wander  with  our  sheep, 

Who  love  and  follow  us.     We  bear, 
If  we  attend,  a  singing  in  the  sky; 

But  feel  no  fear, 
Knowing  that  God  is  always  nigh, 

And  none  pass  by, 
Except  His  Sons,  wlio  cannot  bring 
Tidings  of  evil,  since  they  sing. 
Wise  men  with  gifts  are  hurrying 


HELEN  JACKSON  [H.  H.\  411 

In  haste  to  seek  the  meaning  of  the  Star, 
In  search  of  worship  which  is  new  and  far. 
We  are  but  humble,  so  we  keep 
On  through  the  night,  contented  with  our  sheep, 
And  with  the  stars.     Between  us  and  the  east, 

No  wall,  no  tree,  no  cloud,  lifts  bar. 
We  know  the  sunrise.     No  one  least 

Of  all  its  tokens  can  escape 
Our  eyes  that  watch.     But  all  days  are 
As  nights,  and  nights  as  days, 
In  our  still  ways. 

We  have  no  dread  of  any  shape 

Which  darkness  can  assume  or  fill ; 
We  are  not  weary ;  we  can  wait ; 
God's  hours  are  never  late. 
The  wise  men  say  they  will  return, 
Revealing  unto  us  the  things  they  learn. 

Mayhap  !     Meantime  the  Star  stands  still ; 
And,  having  that,  we  have  the  Sign. 
If  we  mistake,  God  is  divine  ! 

II. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 
Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  still ; 

Its  glory  reinstates, 
Beyond  humiliation's  utmost  ill, 
On  peerless  throne,  which  she  alone  can  fill, 
Each  earthly  woman.     Motherhood  is  priced 

Of  God,  at  price  no  man  may  dare 
To  lessen,  or  misunderstand. 

The  motherhood  which  came 
To  virgin  sets  in  vestal  flame, 
Fed  by  each  new-born  infant's  hand, 

With  Heaven's  air, 
With  Heaven's  food, 
The  crown  of  purest  purity  revealed, 
Virginity  eternal  signed  and  sealed 
Upon  all  motherhood  ! 


412  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

m. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 

Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits, 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  still. 

The  Babe  has  mates. 

Childhood  shall  be  for  ever  on  the  earth ; 
And  no  man  who  has  hurt  or  lightly  priced 

So  much  as  one  sweet  hair 

On  one  sweet  infant's  head, 

But  shall  be  cursed  !     Henceforth  all  things  fulfil 
Protection  to  each  sacred  birth. 

No  spot  shall  dare 

Refuse  a  shelter.     Beasts  shall  tread 
More  lightly  ;  and  distress, 
And  poverty,  and  loneliness, 
Yea,  and  all  darkness,  shall  devise 
To  shield  each  place  wherein  an  infant  lies. 
And  wisdom  shall  come  seeking  it  with  gift, 
And  worship  it  with  myrrh  and  frankincense, 
And  Kings  shall  tremble  if  it  lift* 

Its  hand  against  a  throne. 

But  mighty  in  its  own 
Great  feebleness,  and  safe  in  God's  defence, 

No  harm  can  touch  it,  and  no  death  can  kill, 

Without  its  Father's  will ! 

IV. 

Oh,  not  alone  because  His  name  is  Christ, 

Oh,  not  alone  because  Judea  waits 
This  man-child  for  her  King,  the  Star  stands  still. 
The  universe  must  utter  and  fulfil 

The  mighty  voice  which  states, 
The  mighty  destiny  which  holds, 

Its  key-note  and  its  ultimate  design. 
Waste  places  and  the  deserts  must  perceive 
That  they  are  priced, 

No  less  than  gardens  in  the  Heart  Divine. 
Sorrow  her  sorrowing  must  leave, 

And  learn  one  sign 


HELEN  JACKSON  [H.  H.].  413 

With  joy.     And  Loss  and  Gain 

Must  be  no  more. 
And  all  things  which  have  gone  before, 

And  all  things  which  remain, 

And  all  of  Life,  and  all  of  Death  be  slain 

In  mighty  birth,  whose  name 
Is  called  Redemption  !     Praise  ! 

Praise  to  God  !     The  same 
To-day  and  yesterday  and  in  all  days 

Forever !     Praise ! 

v. 

O  Christmas  Stars  !     Your  pregnant  silentness, 

Mute  syllabled  in  rythmic  light, 

Fills  all  the  night. 
No  doubt,  on  all  your  golden  shores, 

.    Full  music  rings 
Of  Happiness 
As  sweet  as  ours. 

Midway  in  that  great  tideless  stream  which  pours, 
And  builds  its  shining  road  through  trackless  space, 
From  you  to  us,  and  us  to  you,  must  be 

Some  mystic  place, 
Where  all  our  voices  meet,  and  melt 
Into  this  solemn  silence  which  is  felt, 

And  sense  of  sound  mysterious  brings 
Where  sound  is  not.     This  is  God's  secret.      He 

Sits  centred  in  his  myriads  of  skies, 

Where  seas  of  sound  and  seas  of  silence  rise, 
And  break  together  in  one  note  and  key, 

Dwelling  limitless  in  harmony. 


AT  LAST. 

O  THE  years  I  lost  before  I  knew  you, 

Love ! 
O  the  hills  I  climbed  and  came  not  to  you, 

Love! 


4H  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Ah,  who  shall  render  unto  us  to  make 

Us  glad 
The  things  which  for  and  of  each  other's  sake 

We  might  have  had  1 

If  you  and  I  had  sat  and  played  together, 

Love, 
Two  speechless  babies  in  the  summer  weather, 

Love, 
By  one  sweet  brook  which,  though  it  dried  up  long 

Ago, 
Still  makes  for  me  to-day  a  sweeter  song 

Than  all  I  know, — 

If  hand  in  hand  through  the  mysterious  gateway, 

Love, 
Of  womanhood  we  had  first  looked,  and  straightway, 

Love, 
Had  whispered  to  each  other  softly,  ere 

It  yet 
Was  dawn,  what  now  in  noonday  heat  and  fear 

We  both  forget, — 

If  all  of  this  had  given  its  completeness, 

Love, 
To  every  hour,  would  it  be  added  sweetness, 

Love? 
Could  I  know  sooner  whether  it  were  well 

Drill 
With  thee  ?  One  wish  could  I  more  sweetly  tell, 

More  swift  fulfil  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  thus  I  sit  and  dream  and  ponder, 

Love, 
Losing  the  precious  present  while  I  wonder, 

Love, 
About  the  days  in  which  you  grew  and  came 

To  be. 
So  beautiful/ and  did  not  know  the  name 

Or  sight  of  me. 


HELEN  JA  CKSON  [H.  H.~\.  4 1 5 

But  all  lost  things  are  in  the  angels  keeping, 

Love; 
No  past  is  dead  for  us,  but  only  sleeping, 

Love; 
The  years  of  Heaven  will  all  earth's  little  pain 

Make  good, 
Together  there  we  can  begin  again 

In  babyhood. 


WHEN  THE  TIDE  COMES  IN. 

WHEN  the  tide  comes  in, 
At  once  the  shore  and  sea  begin 

Together  to  be  glad. 

What  the  tide  has  brought 
No  man  has  asked,  no  man  has  sought ; 

What  other  tides  have  had 

The  deep  sand  hides  away ; 
The  last  bit  of  the  wrecks  they  wrought 

Was  burned  up  yesterday. 

When  the  tide  goes  out, 
The  shore  looks  dark  and  sad  with  doubt, 

The  landmarks  are  all  lost. 

For  the  tide  to  turn 
Men  patient  wait,  men  restless  yearn. 

Sweet  channels  they  have  crossed, 

In  boats  that  rocked  with  glee, 
Stretch  now  bare  stony  roads  that  burn 

And  lead  away  from  sea. 

When  the  tide  comes  in 
In  hearts,  at  once  the  hearts  begin 

Together  to  be  glad. 

What  the  tide  has  brought 
They  do  not  care,  they  have  not  sought. 

All  joy  they  ever  had 

The  new  joy  multiplies  ; 
All  pain  by  which  it  may  be  bought 

Seems  paltry  sacrifice. 


4 1 6  YO  UNGER  A  M ERIC  A  N  POETS. 

When  the  tide  goes  out, 
The  hearts  are  wrung  with  fear  and  doubt  : 

All  trace  of  joy  seems  lost. 

Will  the  tide  return  1 
In  restless  questioning  they  yearn, 

With  hands  unclasped,  uncrossed, 

They  weep,  on  separate  ways. 
Ah  !  darling,  shall  we  ever  learn 

Love's  tidal  hours  and  days  ? 


WHEN  THE  BAB  Y  DIED. 

i. 
WHEN  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

White  lilies  and  blue  violets  were  strown ; 
Unreasoning,  the  mother's  heart  made  moan  : 
"  Who  counted  all  these  flowers  which  have  grown 

Unhindered  in  their  bloom  ? 

Was  there  not  room, 
O  Earth,  and  God,  couldst  thou  not  care 
For  mine  a  little  longer  ?     Fare 
Thy  way,  O  Earth !    All  life,  all  death 
For  me  ceased  with  my  baby's  breath  ; 
All  Heaven  I  forgot  or  doubt. 

Within,  without, 

Is  idle  chance,  more  pitiless  than  law." 
And  that  was  all  the  mother  saw. 

II. 
When  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

Rose  strangers'  voices,  hard  and  harsh  and  loud. 
The  baby  was  not  wrapped  in  any  shroud. 
The  mother  made  no  sound.     Her  head  was  bowed 
That  men's  eyes  might  not  see 

Her  misery ; 

But  in  her  bitter  heart  she  said, 
"  Ah  me !  'tis  well  that  he  is  dead, 


HELEN  JACKSON  [//.//.].  41? 

My  boy  for  whom  there  was  no  food. 
If  there  were  God,  and  God  were  good, 
All  human  hearts  at  last  might  keep 

The  right  to  weep 

Their  dead.     There  is  no  God,  but  cruel  law." 
And  that  was  all  the  mother  saw. 

ill. 
When  the  baby  died, 

On  every  side 

Swift  angels  came  in  shining,  singing  bands, 
And  bore  the  little  one,  with  gentle  Lands, 
Into  the  sunshine  of  the  Spirit  Land; 

And  Christ  the  Shepherd  said, 

"  Let  them  be  led 
In  gardens  nearest  to  the  earth. 
One  mother  weepeth  over  birth, 
Another  weepeth  over  death; 
In  vain  all  Heaven  answereth. 
Laughs  from  the  little  ones  may  reach 

Their  ears,  and  teach 

Them  what,  so  blind  with  tears,  they  never  saw, — 
That  of  all  life,  all  death,  God's  love  is  law." 


LAND. 

O  LAND,  sweet  land  !     New  World  !  my  world  ! 
No  mortal  knows  what  seas  I  sail 
With  hope  and  faith  which  never  fail, 
With  heart  and  will  which  never  quail. 
Till  on  thy  shore  my  sails  are  furled, 
O  land,  sweet  land  !     New  World  !  my  world  ! 

0  land,  sweet  land  !     New  World  !  my  world  ! 

1  cross  again,  again,  again 

The  magic  seas.     Each  time  I  reign 
Crowned  conqueror.      Each  time  remain 
New  shores  on  which  my  sails  are  furled, 
A  sweeter  land  !     A  newer  world  ! 

2D 


418  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

0  world,  New  World  !  Sweet  land,  my  land  ! 

1  come  to-day,  as  first  I  came. 
The  sea  is  swift,  the  sky  is  flame. 

My  low  song  sings  thy  nameless  name. 

Lovers  who  love,  ye  understand  ! 

O  sweetest  world  !     O  sweetest  land  ! 


WHEN  THE  KINGS  COME. 
WHEN  the  kings  come  to  royal  hunting-seats 
To  find  the  royal  joys  of  summer  days, 
The  servants  on  the  lofty  watch-tower  raise 
A  banner,  whose  swift  token  warning  greets 
The  country.     Threatening  stern,  an  armed  man  meets 
Each  stranger,  who,  by  pleasant  forest  ways, 
All  unawares,  has  rambled  till  he  strays 
Too  close  to  paths  where,  in  the  noonday  heats, 
The  King,  uncrowned,  lies  down  to  sleep.     Such  law 
As  this  the  human  soul  sets  heart  and  face 
And  hand,  when  once  its  King  has  come.     In  awe, 
And  gladness  too,  all  men  behold  what  grace 
Such  royal  presence  to  the  eye  can  bring, 
And  how  the  heart  and  hand  can  guard  their  King. 


MORDECAL 

MAKE  friends  with  him  !     He  is  of  royal  line, 
Although  he  sits  in  rags.     Not  all  of  thine 
Array  of  splendour,  pomp  of  high  estate, 
Can  buy  him  from  his  place  within  the  gate, 
The  king's  gate  of  thy  happiness,  where  he, 
Yes,  even  he,  the  Jew,  remaineth  free, 
Never  obeisance  making,  never  scorn 
Betraying  of  thy  silver  and  new-born 
Delight.     Make  friends  with  him,  for  unawares 
The  charmed  secret  of  thy  joys  he  bears; 
Be  glad,  so  long  as  his  black  sackcloth,  late 
And  early,  thwarts  thy  sun;  for  if  in  hate 
Thou  plottest  for  his  blood,  thy  own  death-cry, 
Not  his,  comes  from  the  gallows,  cubits  high. 


HELEN  JACKSON '  [ff.  H.\  419 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  SAINT  PETER'S. 

Low^on  the  marble  floor  I  lie : 

I  am  alone : 

Though  friendly  voices  whisper  nigh, 
And  foreign  crowds  are  passing  by, 

I  am  alone. 

Great  hymns  float  through 
The  shadowed  aisles.     I  hear  a  slow 
Refrain,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

With  tender  joy  all  others  thrill  ; 

I  have  but  tears  : 

The  false  priests'  voices,  high  and  shrill, 
Reiterate  the  "Peace,  good  will;" 

I  have  but  tears. 

-I  hear  anew 

The  nails  and  scourge  ;  then  come  the  low 
Sad  words,  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

Close  by  my  side  the  poor  souls  kneel ; 

I  turn  away ; 

Half-pitying  looks  at  me  they  steal ; 
They  think,  because  I  do  not  feel, 

I  turn  away. 

Ah  !  if  they  knew, 

How  following  them,  where'er  they  go, 
I  hear,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

Above  the  organ's  sweetest  strains 

I  hear  the  groans 
Of  prisoners,  who  lie  in  chains, 
So  near,  and  in  such  mortal  pains, 

I  hear  the  groans. 

But  Christ  walks  through 
The  dungeon  of  St  Angelo, 
And  says,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 


420  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  now  the  music  sinks  to  sighs 

The  lights  grow  dim  : 
The  Pastorella's  melodies 
In  lingering  echoes  float  and  rise ; 

The  lights  grow  dim  ; 

More  clear  and  true, 
In  this  sweet  silence,  seem  to  flow 
The  words,  "  Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do." 

The  dawn  swings  incense,  silver  gray  ; 

The  night  is  past ; 

Now  comes,  triumphant,  God's  full  day ; 
No  priest,  no  church  can  bar  its  way  : 

The  night  is  past : 

How  on  this  blue 

Of  God's  great  banner,  blaze  and  glow 
The  words,  "Forgive  them,  for  they  know 

Not  what  they  do  ! " 


SONNETS. 
BON    VO  YA  GE. 

THERE'S  not  an  hour  but  from  some  sparkling  beach 

Go  joyful  men,  in  fragile  ships  to  sail, 

By  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands.     They  hail 

The  freshening  winds  with  eager  hope,  and  speech 

Of  wondrous  countries  which  they  soon  will  reach. 

Left  on  the  shore,  we  wave  our  hands,  with  pale, 

Wet  cheeks,  but  hearts  that  are  ashamed  to  quail, 

Or  own  the  grief  which  selfishness  would  teach. 

O  Death,  the  fairest  lands  beyond  thy  sea 

Lie  waiting,  and  thy  barks  are  swift  and  staunch 

And  ready.     Why  do  we  reluctant  launch? 

And  when  our  friends  their  heritage  have  claimed 

Of  thee,  and  entered  on  it,  rich  and  free, 

Oh,  why  are  we  of  sorrow  not  ashamed  ? 


HELEN  JA  CKSON  [H.  H.~\.  42 1 

SEALED   ORDERS. 

WHEN  ship  with  "orders  sealed"  sails  out  to  sea, 
Men  eager  crowd  the  wharves,  and  reverent  gaze 
Upon  their  faces,  whose  brave  spirits  raise 

No  question  if  the  unknown  voyage  be 

Of  deadly  peril.     Benedictions  free 

And  prayers  and  tears  are  given,  and  the  days 
Counted  till  other  ships,  on  homeward  ways, 

May  bring  back  message  of  her  destiny. 

Yet,  all  the  time,  Life's  tossing  sea  is  white 

With  scudding  sails  which  no  man  reefs  or  stays 
By  his  own  will,  for  roughest  day  or  night : 

Brave,  helpless  crews,  with  captain  out  of  sight, 
Harbor  unknown,  voyage  of  long  delays, 
They  meet  no  other  ships  on  homeward  ways. 


A  VALANCHES. 

0  HEART  that  in  Love's  sunny  height  doth  dwell, 

And  joy  unquestioning  by  day,  by  night, 

Serene  in  trust  because  the  skies  are  bright ! 

Listen  to  what  all  Alpine  records  tell, 

Of  days  on  which  the  avalanches  fell. 

Not  days  of  storm  when  men  were  pale  with  fright, 

And  watched  the  hills  with  anxious,  straining  sight, 

And  heard  in  every  sound  a  jnote  of  knell ; 

But  when  in  heavens  still,  and  blue,  and  clear, 

The  sun  rode  high, — those  were  the  hours  to  fear. 

And  so  the  monks  of  San  Bernard  to-day, — 

May  the  Lord  count  their  souls  and  hold  them  dear,- 

When  skies  are  cloudless,  in  their  convent  stay, 

And  for  the  souls  of  dead  and  dying  pray. 


CHEYENNE  MOUNTAIN. 

BY  easy  slope  to  west,  as  if  it  had 

No  thought,  when  first  its  soaring  was  begun. 

Except  to  look  devoutly  to  the  sun, 

It  rises,  and  has  risen,  until  glad, 


422  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

With  light  as  with  a  garment,  it  is  clad, 
Each  dawn,  before  the  tardy  plains  have  won 
One  ray ;  and  after  day  has  long  been  done 
For  us,  the  light  doth  cling  reluctant,  sad 
To  leave  its  brow.     Beloved  mountain,  I, 
Thy  worshipper  as  thou  the  sun's  each  morn 
My  dawn,  before  the  dawn,  receive  from  thee ; 
And  think,  as  thy  rose-tinted  peaks  I  see 
That  thou  wert  great  when  Homer  was  not  born, 
And  ere  thou  change  all  human  song  shall  die. 


DANGER. 

WITH  what  a  childish  and  short  sighted  sense 

Fear  seeks  for  safety ;  reckons  up  the  days 

Of  danger  and  escape,  the  hours  and  ways 

Of  death  ;  it  breathless  flies  the  pestilence  ; 

It  walls  itself  in  towers  of  defence  ; 

By  land,  by  sea,  against  the  storm  it  lays 

Down  barriers  ;  then,  comforted,  it  says  : 

"  This  spot,  this  hour  is  safe."    Oh,  vain  pretence  ! 

Man  born  of  man  knows  nothing  when  he  goes  ; 

The  winds  blow  where  they  list,  and  will  disclose 

To  no  man  which  brings  safety,  which  brings  risk. 

The  mighty  are  brought  low  by  many  a  thing 

Too  small  to  name.     Beneath  the  daisy's  disk 

Lies  hid  the  pebble  for  the  fatal  sling. 


THE  FIR-TREE  AND  THE  BROOK. 

THE  Fir-Tree  looked  on  stars,  but  loved  the  Brook  ! 
"  O  silver-voiced  !  if  thou  wouldst  wait, 
My  love  can  bravely  woo."     All  smiles  forsook 
The  Brook's  white  face.     "  Too  late  ! 
Too  late  !     I  go  to  wed  the  sea. 
I  know  not  if  my  love  would  curse  or  bless  thee. 
I  may  not,  dare  not,  tarry  to  caress  thee. 
Oh,  do  not  follow  me  ! " 


HELEN  JACKSON  \H.  H.\  423 

The  Fir-Tree  moaned  and  moaned  till  spring ; 
Then  laughed  in  maniac  joy  to  feel 
Early  one  day,  the  woodmen  of  the  King 
Sign  him  with  sign  of  burning  steel, 
The  first  to  fall.      "Now  flee 

Thy  swiftest,  Brook  !    Thy  love  may  curse  or  bless  me, 
I  care  not,  if  but  once  thou  dost  caress  me, 
O  Brook,  I  follow  thee  !  " 

All  torn  and  bruised  with  mark  of  axe  and  chain, 
Hurled  down  the  dizzy  slide  of  sand, 
Tossed  by  great  waves  in  ecstasy  of  pain, 
And  rudely  thrown  at  last  to  land, 
The  Fir-Tree  heard  :  "  Oh,  see 
With  what  fierce  love  it  is  I  must  caress  thee  ! 
I  warned  thee  I  might  curse,  and  never  bless  thee, 
Why  did'st  thou  follow  me  1 " 

All  stately  set  with  spar  and  brace  and  rope, 
The  Fir-Tree  stood  and  sailed,  and  sailed. 
In  wildest  storm  when  all  the  ship  lost  hope, 
The  Fir-Tree  never  shook  nor  quailed, 
Nor  ceased  from  saying,  "  Free 

Art  thou,  O  Brook  !     But  once  thou  hast  caressed  me  ; 
For  life,  for  death,  thy  love  has  cursed  or  blessed  me ; 
Behold,  I  follow  thee  !  " 

Lost  in  a  night,  and  no  man  left  to  tell, 
Crushed  in  the  giant  iceberg's  play, 
The  ship  went  down  without  a  song,  a  knell. 
Still  drifts  the  Fir-Tree  night  and  day; 
Still  moans  along  the  sea 

A  voice  :   "  0  Fir-Tree  !  thus  must  I  possess  thee ; 
Eternally,  brave  love,  will  I  caress  thee, 
Dead  for  the  love  of  me ! " 


424  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


REFRAIN. 

OF  all  the  songs  which  poets  sing, 

The  ones  which  are  most  sweet, 
Are  those  which  at  close  intervals 

A  low  refrain  repeat ; 
Some  tender  word,  some  syllable, 

Over  and  over,  ever  and  ever, 

While  the  song  lasts, 

Altering  never. 
Music  if  sung,  music  if  said, 
Subtle  like  some  fine  golden  thread 

A  shuttle  casts, 
In  and  out  on  a  fabric  red, 

Till  it  glows  all  through 

With  the  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  the  songs  sung, 

No  songs  are  so  sweet 
As  the  songs  with  refrains, 

Which  repeat  and  repeat. 

Of  all  the  lives  lived, 

No  life  is  so  sweet, 
As  the  life  where  one  thought, 

In  refrain  dotli  repeat, 
Over  and  over,  ever  and  ever, 

Till  the  life  ends, 
Altering  never, 

Joy  which  is  felt,  but  is  not  said, 
Subtler  than  any  golden  thread 

Which  the  shuttle  sends 
In  and  out  in  a  fabric  red, 

Till  it  glows  all  through 

With  a  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  the  lives  lived, 

Can  be  no  life  so  sweet 
As  the  life  where  one  thought 

In  refrain  doth  repeat. 


HELEN  JA  CKSON  [H.  ff.].  42  5 

"  Now  name  me  a  thought 

To  make  life  so  sweet, 
A  thought  of  such  joy 

Its  refrain  to  repeat." 
Oh  !  foolish  to  ask  me.     Ever,  ever 

Who  loveth  believes, 
But  telleth  never. 

It  might  be  a  name,  just  a  name  not  said, 
But  in  every  thought,  like  a  golden  thread 

Which  the  shuttle  weaves 

In  and  out  on  a  fabric  red, 
Till  it  glows  all  through 

With  a  golden  hue. 
Oh  !  of  all  sweet  lives, 

Who  can  tell  how  sweet 
Is  the  life  which  one  name 

In  refrain  doth  repeat? 


MY  TENANTS. 
I  NEVER  had  a  title-deed 
To  my  estate.     But  little  heed 
Eyes  give  to  me,  when  I  walk  by 
My  fields,  to  see  who  occupy. 
Some  clumsy  men  who  lease  and  hire 
And  cut  my  trees  to  feed  their  fire, 
Own  all  the  land  that  I  possess, 
And  tax  my  tenants  to  distress. 
And  if  I  said  I  had  been  first, 
And,  reaping,  left  for  them  the  worst, 
That  they  were  beggars  at  the  hands 
Of  dwellers  on  my  royal  lands, 
With  idle  laugh  of  passing  scorn 
As  unto  words  of  madness  born, 
They  would  reply. 

I  do  not  care ; 

They  cannot  crowd  the  charmed  air  ; 
They  cannot  touch  the  bonds  I  hold 
On  all  that  they  have  bought  and  sold. 


426  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

They  can  waylay  my  faithful  bees, 
Who,  lulled  to  sleep,  with  fatal  ease, 
Are  robbed.     Is  one  day's  honey  sweet 
Thus  snatched  ?     All  summer  round  my  feet 
In  golden  drifts  from  plumy  wings, 
In  shining  drops  on  fragrant  things, 
Free  gift,  it  came  to  me.     My  corn, 
With  burnished  banners,  morn  by  morn, 
Comes  out  to  meet  and  honour  me ; 
The  glittering  ranks  spread  royally 
Far  as  I  walk.     When  hasty  greed 
Tramples  it  down  for  food  and  seed, 
I,  with  a  certain  veiled  delight, 
Hear  half  the  crop  is  lost  by  blight. 
Letter  of  law  these  may  fulfil, 
Plant  where  they  like,  slay  what  they  will ; 
»        Count  up  their  gains  and  make  them  great ; 
Nevertheless,  the  whole  estate 
Always  belongs  to  me  and  mine. 
We  are  the  only  royal  line. 
And  though  I  have  no  title-deed 
My  tenants  pay  me  loyal  heed 
When  our  sweet  fields  I  wander  by 
To  see  what  strangers  occupy. 


DEDICA  TION. 

WHEN  children  in  the  summer  weather  play, 

Flitting  like  birds  through  sun  and  wind  and  rain, 

From  road  to  field,  from  field  to  road  again, 

Pathetic  reckoning  of  each  mile  they  stray 

They  leave  in  flowers  forgotten  by  the  way; 

Forgotten,  dying,  but  not  all  in  vain, 

Since,  finding  them,  with  tender  smiles,  half  pain, 

Half  joy,  we  sigh,  "  Some  child  passed  here  to-day." 

Dear  one, — whose  name  I  name  not  lest  some  tongue 

Pronounce  it  roughly — like  a  little  child 

Tired  out  at  noon,  1  left  my  flowers  among 

The  wayside  things.     I  know  how  thou  hast  smiled, 


HELEN  JA  CKSON  \H.  //.].  42  7 

And  that  the  thought  of  them  will  always  be 
One  more  sweet  secret  thing  'twixt  thee  and  me. 


MA  Y. 

THE  voice  of  one  who  goes  before  to  make 
The  paths  of  June  more  beautiful,  is  thine, 
Sweet  May  !     Without  an  envy  of  her  crown 
And  bridal ;  patient  stringing  emeralds 
And  shining  rubies  for  the  brows  of  birch 
And  maple ;  flinging  garlands  of  pure  white 
And  pink,  which  to  their  bloom  add  prophecy; 
Gold  cups  o'er-filling  on  a  thousand  hills 
And  calling  honey-bees  ;  out  of  their  sleep 
The  tiny  summer  harpers  with  bright  wings 
Awaking,  teaching  them  their  notes  for  noon  ;- 
O  May,  sweet-voiced  one,  going  thus  before, 
Forever  June  may  pour  her  warm  red  wine 
Of  life  and  passion, — sweeter  days  are  thine. 


THE  POETS  FORGE. 

HE  lies  on  his  back,  the  idling  smith, 

A  lazy,  dreaming  fellow  is  he ; 
The  sky  is  blue,  or  the  sky  is  gray, 
He  lies  on  his  back  the  livelong  day, 
Not  a  tool  in  sight ;  say  what  they  may, 

A  curious  sort  of  a  smith  is  he. 
The  powers  of  the  air  are  in  league  with  him ; 

The  country  around  believes  it  well ; 
The  wondering  folk  draw  spying  near ; 
Never  sight  nor  sound  do  they  see  or  hear  • 
No  wonder  they  feel  a  little  fear ; 

When  is  it  his  work  is  done  so  well  1 
Never  sight  nor  sound  to  see  or  hear ; 

The  powers  of  the  air  are  in  league  with  him  ; 
High  over  his  head  his  metals  swing, 

Fine  gold  and  silver  to  shame  the  king ; 


428  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

We  might  distinguish  their  glittering, 
If  once  we  could  get  in  league  with  him. 

High  over  his  head  his  metals  swing ; 
He  hammers  them  idly  year  by  year, 
Hammers  and  chuckles  a  low  refrain  : 
"  A  bench  and  book  are  a  ball  and  chain, 
The  adze  is  better  tool  than  the  plane ; 

What's  the  odds  between  now  and  next  year !  " 

Hammers  and  chuckles  his  low  refrain, 

A  lazy,  dreaming  fellow  is  he : 
When  sudden,  some  day,  his  bells  peal  out, 
And  men,  at  the  sound,  for  gladness  shout; 
He  laughs  and  asks  what  it's  all  about; 

Oh.  a  curious  sort  of  smith  is  he  1 


VANITY  OF  VANITIES. 

BEE  to  the  blossom,  moth  to  the  flame ; 
Each  to  his  passion ;  what's  in  a  name  1 

Red  clover's  sweetest,  well  the  bee  knows ; 
No  bee  can  suck  it ;  lonely  it  blows. 

Deep  lies  its  honey,  ou-t  of  reach,  deep ; 
What  use  in  honey  hidden  to  keep  1 

Robbed  in  the  autumn,  starving  for  bread  ; 
Who  stops  to  pity  a  honey-bee  dead  1 

Star- flames  are  brightest,  blazing  the  skies ; 
Only  a  hand's  breadth  the  moth-wing  flies. 

Fooled  with  a  candle,  scorched  with  a  breath  ; 
Poor  little  miller,  a  tawdry  death  ! 

Life  is  a  honey,  life  is  a  flame; 

Each  to  his  passion ;  what's  in  a  name  ? 

Swinging  and  circling,  face  to  the  sun 
Brief  little  planet,  how  it  doth  run  ! 


HELEN  JACKSON  [H.  //.]•  4^9 

Bee-time  and  moth-time,  add  the  amount; 
White  heat  and  honey,  who  keeps  the  count? 

Gone  some  fine  evening,  a  spark  out-tost ! 
The  world  no  darker  for  one  star  lost  ! 

Bee  to  the  blossom,  moth  to  the  flame ; 
Each  to  his  passion;  what's  in  a  name  ! 


HABEAS  CORPUS. 

MY  body,  eh  ?     Friend  Death,  how  now  ? 

Why  all  this  tedious  pomp  of  writ  1 
Thou  hast  reclaimed  it  sure  and  slow 

For  half  a  century,  bit  by  bit. 

In  faith  thou  knowest  more  to-day 
Than  I  do,  where  it  can  be  found  ! 

This  shrivelled  lump  of  suffering  clay, 
To  which  I  now  am  chained  and  bound, 

Has  not  of  kith  or  kin  a  trace 

To  the  good  body  once  I  bore ; 
Look  at  this  shrunken,  ghastly  face : 

Didst  ever  see  that  face  before  ? 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art 
Thy  only  fault  thy  lagging  gait, 

Mistaken  pity  in  thy  heart 

For  timorous  ones  that  bid  thee  wait, 

Do  quickly  all  thou  hast  to  do, 

Nor  I  nor  mine  will  hindrance  make ; 

I  shall  be  free  when  thou  art  through  : 

I  grudge  thee  nought  that  thou  must  take. 

Stay  !  I  have  lied ;  I  grudge  thee  one, 
Yes,  two  I  grudge  thee  at  this  last, — 

Two  members  which  have  faithful  done 
My  will  and  bidding  in  the  past. 


43°  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  grudge  thee  this  right  hand  of  mine, 
I  grudge  thee  this  quick-beating  heart : 

They  never  gave  me  coward  sign, 
Nor  played  me  once  a  traitor's  part. 

I  see  now  why  in  olden  days 

Men  in  barbaric  love  or  hate 
Nailed  enemies'  hands  at  wild  crossways, 

Shrined  leaders'  hearts  in  costly  state  : 

The  symbol,  sign,  and  instrument 

Of  each  soul's  purpose,  passion,  strife, 

Of  fires  in  which  are  poured  and  spent 
Their  all  of  love,  their  all  of  life. 

0  feeble,  mighty  human  hand  ! 

0  fragile,  dauntless  human  heart ! 
The  universe  holds  nothing  planned 

With  such  sublime,  transcendent  art ! 

Yes,  Death,  I  own  I  grudge  thee  mine 
Poor  little  hand,  so  feeble  now  ; 

Its  wrinkled  palm,  its  altered  line, 
Its  veins  so  pallid  and  so  slow — 

.     .     .     (Unfinished  here.) 

Ah,  well,  friend  Death,  good  friend  thou  art ; 

1  shall  be  free  when  thou  art  through. 
Take  all  there  is — take  hand  and  heart ; 

There  must  be  somewhere  work  to  do. 


A  LAST  PR  A  YER. 

FATHER,  I  scarcely  dare  to  pray, 
So  clear  I  see,  now  it  is  done, 

That  I  have  wasted  half  my  day, 
And  left  my  work  but  just  begun ; 

So  clear  I  see  that  things  I  thought 

Were  right  or  harmless  were  a  sin ; 
So  clear  I  see  that  I  have  sought, 
Unconscious,  selfish  aims  to  win ; 


ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP.  431 

So  clear  I  see  that  I  have  hurt 

Tiie  souls  I  might  have  helped  to  save  ; 

That  I  have  slothful  been,  inert, 
Deaf  to  the  calls  thy  leaders  gave. 

In  outskirts  of  thy  kingdoms  vast, 
Father,  the  humblest  spot  give  me  ; 

Set  me  the  lowliest  task  thou  hast ; 
Let  me  repentant  work  for  thee  ! 


ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP. 

[Born  at  Lenox,  Massachusetts,  20th  May  1851.  Author  of  Along  the 
Shore,  published,  in  1888,  by  Ticknor  &  Co.,  now  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston,  with  whose  kind  permission  the  poems 
quoted  are  given.] 

FRANC  IE. 

I  LOVED  a  child  as  we  should  love 

Each  other  everywhere ; 
I  cared  more  for  his  happiness 

Than  I  dreaded  my  own  despair. 

An  angel  asked  me  to  give  him, 

My  whole  life's  dearest  cost ; 
And  in  adding  mine  to  his  treasures 

I  knew  they  could  never  be  lost. 

To  his  heart  I  gave  the  gold, 

Though  little  my  own  had  known  ; 

To  his  eyes  what  tenderness 

From  youth  in  mine  had  grown  ! 

I  gave  him  all  my  buoyant 

Hope  for  my  future  years  : 
I  gave  him  whatever  melody 

My  voice  had  steeped  in  tears. 

Upon  the  shore  of  darkness 

His  drifted  body  lies, 
He  is  dead,  and  I  stand  beside  him, 

With  his  beauty  in  my  eyes. 


432  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  am  like  those  withered  petals 
We  see  on  a  winter  day, 

That  gladly  give  their  colour 
In  the  happy  summer  away. 

I  am  glad  I  lavished  my  worthiest 
To  fashion  his  greater  worth  ; 

Since  he  will  live  in  heaven, 
I  shall  lie  content  in  the  earth. 


DOROTHY. 

DEAR  little  Dorothy,  she  is  no  more ! 
I  have  wandered  world-wide,  from  shore  to  shore ; 
I  have  seen  as  great  beauties  as  ever  were  wed ; 
But  none  can  console  me  for  Dorothy  dead. 

Dear  little  Dorothy  !     How  strange  it  seems 
That  her  face  is  less  real  than  the  faces  of  dreams ; 
That  the  love  which  kept  true,  and  the  lips  which  so 

spoke, 
Are  more  lost  than  my  heart,  which  died  not  when  it 

broke ! 


LOOKING  BACKWARD. 

GREY  towers  make  me  think  of  thee, 
Thou  girl  of  olden  minstrelsy, 
Young  as  the  sunlight  of  to-day, 
Silent  as  tasselled  boughs  of  May  ! 

A  wind-flower  in  a  world  of  harm, 

A  hair-bell  on  a  turret's  arm, 

A  pearl  upon  the  hilt  of  Fame 

Thou  wert,  fair  child  of  some  high  name. 

The  velvet  page,  the  deep-eyed  knight, 
The  heartless  falcon,  poised  for  flight, 
The  dainty  steed  and  graceful  hound, 
In  thee  their  keenest  rapture  found 


ROSE  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP.  433 

But  for  old  ballads,  and  the  rhyme 

And  writ  of  genius  o'er  the  time 

When  keeps  had  newly  reared  their  towers, 

The  winning  scene  had  not  been  ours. 

O  chivalry  !     Thy  age  was  fair, 
When  even  knaves  set  out  to  dare 
Their  heads  for  any  barbarous  crime, 
And  hate  was  brave,  and  love  sublime. 

The  bugle-note  I  send  so  far 
Across  Time's  moors  to  thee,  sweet  star, 
Where  stands  thy  castle  in  its  mist, 
Hear,  if  the  wandering  breezes  list ! 


THE  OUT- GOING  RACE. 

THE  mothers  wish  for  no  more  daughters ; 
There  is  no  future  before  them. 
They  bow  their  heads  and  their  pride 
At  the  end  of  the  many  tribes  journey. 

The  mothers  weep  over  their  children 
Loved  and  unwelcome  together, 
Who  should  have  been  dreamed,  not  born, 
Since  there  is  no  road  for  the  Indian. 

The  mothers  see  into  the  future, 
Beyond  the  end  of  that  Chieftain 
Who  shall  be  the  last  of  the  race 
Which  allowed  only  death  to  a  coward. 

The  square,  cold  cheeks,  lips  firm-set, 
The  hot,  straight  glance,  and  the  throat-line, 
Held  like  a  stag's  on  the  cliff, 
Shall  be  swept  by  the  night-winds,  and  vanish 
2  E 


434  yO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 

[Bora  at  New  York  City,  22d  July  1849.  Died  at  New  York, 
19th  November  1887.  Author  of  Poems  and  Translations 
(New  York,  1867);  Admetus,  and  other  Poems  (1871);  Alide, 
an  Episode  of  Goethe's  Life  (Philadelphia,  1874);  Poems  and 
Ballads  of  Heine  (New  York,  1881) ;  Poems,  2  vols.  ;  Narra 
tive,  Lyric  and  Dramatic;  Jewish  Poems  and  Translations, 
Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.] 

THE  CROWING  OF  THE  RED  COCK. 

ACROSS  the  Eastern  sky  has  glowed 

The  flicker  of  a  blood-red  dawn, 
Once  more  the  clarion  cock  has  crowed, 

Once  more  the  sword  of  Christ  is  drawn. 
A  million  burning  rooftrees  light 
The  world-wide  path  of  Israel's  flight. 

Where  is  the  Hebrew's  Fatherland  1 
The  folk  of  Christ  is  sore  bestead ; 

The  Son  of  Man  is  bruised  and  banned, 
Nor  finds  whereon  to  lay  His  head. 

His  cup  is  gall,  His  meat  is  tears, 

His  passion  lasts  a  thousand  years. 

Each  crime  that  wakes  in  man  the  beast, 

Is  visited  upon  his  kind. 
The  lust  of  mobs,  the  greed  of  Priest, 

The  tyranny  of  Kings,  combined 
To  root  his  seed  from  earth  again, 
His  record  is  one  cry  of  pain. 

When  the  long  roll  of  Christian  guilt 
Against  his  sires  and  kin  is  known, 

The  flood  of  tears,  the  life-blood  spilt, 
The  agony  of  ages  shown, 

What  oceans  can  the  stain  remove, 

From  Christian  law  and  Christian  love  1 

Nay,  close  the  book ;  not  now,  not  here, 

The  hideous  tale  of  sin  narrate, 
He  echoing  in  the  martyr's  ear 

Even  he  might  iiuvse  revengeful  hate, 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  435 

Even  he  might  turn  in  wrath  sublime, 
With  blood  for  blood  and  crime  for  crime, 

Coward  ?     Not  he,  who  faces  death, 
Who  singly  against  worlds  has  fought, 

For  what  1     A  name  he  may  not  breathe, 
For  liberty  of  prayer  and  thought. 

The  angry  sword  he  will  not  whet, 

His  nobler  task  is — to  forget. 


THE  BANNER  OF  THE  JE  W. 

WAKE,  Israel,  wake  !     Recall  to-day 

The  glorious  Maccabean  rage, 
The  sire  heroic,  hoary-grey, 

His  five-fold  lion-lineage : 
The  Wise,  the  Elect,  the  Help-of-God, 
The  Burst-of-Spring,  the  Avenging  Rod.* 

From  Mizpeh's  mountain-ridge  they  saw 
Jerusalem's  empty  streets,  her  shrine 

Laid  waste  where  Greeks  profaned  the  Law, 
With  idol  and  with  pagan  sign. 

Mourners  in  tattered  black  were  there, 

With  ashes  sprinkled  on  their  hair. 

Then  from  the  stony  peak  there  rang 

A  blast  to  ope  the  graves;  down  poured 

The  Maccabean  clan,  who  sang 
Their  battle-anthem  to  the  Lord. 

Five  heroes  lead,  and  following,  see, 

Ten  thousand  rush  to  Victory  ! 

Oh  for  Jerusalem's  trumpet  now, 

To  blow  a  blast  of  shattering  power, 

To  wake  the  sleepers  high  and  low, 
And  rouse  them  to  the  urgent  hour ! 

No  hand  for  vengeance — but  to  save, 

A  million  naked  swords  should  wave. 

*  The    sons    of    Mattathias— Jonathan,  John,   Eleazer,    Simon 
(also  called  the  Jewel),  and  Judas  the  Prince. 


436  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Oh  deem  not  dead  that  martial  fire, 
Say  not  the  mystic  flame  is  spent ! 

With  Moses'  law  and  David's  lyre, 

Your  ancient  strength  remains  unbent. 

Let  but  an  Ezra  rise  anew, 

To  lift  the  Banner  of  the  Jew. 

A  rag,  a  mock  at  first — erelong, 

When  men  have  bled,  and  women  wept 

To  guard  its  precious  folds  from  wrong, 

Even  they  who  shrunk,  even  they  who  slept, 

Shall  leap  to  bless  it,  and  to  save. 

Strike  !  for  the  brave  revere  the  brave  ! 


A  MASQUE  OF  VENICE. 

NOT  a  stain, 

In  the  sun-brimmed  sapphire  cup  that  is  the  sky — 
Not  a  ripple  on  the  black  translucent  lane 
Of  the  palace-walled  lagoon. 

Not  a  cry 

As  the  gondoliers  with  velvet  oar  glide  by, 
Through  the  golden  afternoon. 

From  this  height 

Where  the  carved,  age-yellowed  balcony  o'er-juts 
Yonder  liquid,  marble  pavement,  see  the  light 
Shimmer  soft  beneath  the  bridge 

That  abuts 

On  a  labyrinth  of  water  ways,  and  shuts 
Half  their  sky  off  with  its  ridge. 

We  shall  mark 

All  the  pageant  from  this  ivory  porch  of  ours, 
Masques  and  jesters,  mimes  and  minstrels,  while  we  hark 
To  their  music  as  they  fare. 

Scent  their  flowers 

Flung  from  boat  to  boat  in  rainbow  radiant  showers 
Through  the  laughter-ringing  air. 


EMMA  LAZARUS.  437 

See !  they  come, 

Like  a  flock  of  serpent-throated  black-plumed  swans, 
With  the  mandoline,  the  viol,  and  the  drum, 
Gems  afire  on  arms  ungloved, 

Fluttering  fans, 

Floating  mantles  like  a  great  moth's  streaky  vans 
Such  as  Veronese  loved. 

But  behold 

In  their  midst  a  white  unruffled  swan  appear. 
One  strange  barge  that  snowy  tapestries  enfold, 
White  its  tasselled  silver  prow. 

Who  is  here  1 

Prince  of  Love  in  masquerade  or  Prince  of  Fear, 
Clad  in  glittering  silken  snow  ? 

Cheek  and  chin 

Where  the  mask's  edge  stops  are  of  the  hoar  frost's  hue. 
And  no  eye-beams  seem  to  sparkle  from  within 
Where  the  hollow  rings  have  place. 

Yon  gay  crew 

Seem  to  fly  him,  he  seems  ever  to  pursue. 
"Tis  our  sport  to  watch  the  race. 

At  his  side 

Stands  the  goldenest  of  beauties;  from  her' glance 
From  her  forehead,  shines  the  splendour  of  a  bride, 
And  her  feet  seem  shod  with  wings 

To  entrance, 

For  she  leaps  into  a  wild  and  rhythmic  dance, 
Like  Salome  at  the  King's. 

'Tis  his  aim 

Just  to  hold,  to  clasp  her  once  against  his  breast, 
Hers  to  flee  him,  to  elude  him  in  the  game. 
Ah,  she  fears  him  overmuch  ! 

Is  it  jest, — 

Is  it  earnest  1  a  strange  riddle  lurks  half-guessed 
In  her  horror  of  his  touch. 


438  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For  each  time 

That  his  snow-white  fingers  reach  her,  fades  some  ray 
From  the  glory  of  her  beauty  in  its  prime ; 
And  the  knowledge  grows  upon  us  that  the  dance 

Is  no  play 

'Twixt  the  pale,  mysterious  lover  and  the  fay — 
But  the  whirl  of  fate  and  chance. 

Where  the  tide 

Of  the  broad  lagoon  sinks  plumb  into  the  sea, 
There  the  mystic  gondolier  hath  won  his  bride. 
Hark,  one  helpless,  stifled  scream  ! 

Must  it  be  ? 

Mimes  and  minstrels,  flowers  and  music,  where  are  ye  1 
Was  all  Venice  such  a  dream  ? 
May  1886. 


JULIE  MATHILDE  LTPPMANN. 

[Born  at  Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  27th  June  1864.] 

A  SONG  OF  THE  ROAD. 

COME,  comrades  !  since  the  road  is  long 
Let's  liven  it  by  tune  and  song, 
And  greeting  give  to  all  we  pass  : — 
To  white-of-head  ;  to  light-of-head  ; 
To  matron  grave,  and  laughing  lass  : 
Hurrah  !  for  lane  and  by-way ; 
For  distant  path  and  nigh-way ; 
For  friends  we  greet,  for  foes  we  meet 
Along  the  world's  broad  highway. 

'Tis  morning-break,  lithe  limbs  are  strong. 
Who  dreams  of  crime  and  guilt  and  wrong  ? 
Yon  youngling  and  his  violet-eyes  ? 
Nay  !  light-of-mind  and  love-so-blind 
Are  wisdom-proof  and  folly-wise. 

Hurrah  !  for  lane  and  by-way,  etc. 


JULIE  MATHILDE  LIP P MANN.  439 

Tis  noontide,  let  us  spend  an  hour 
Dream-drinking,  ere  we  lose  the  power, 
And  all  our  pleasure  disappears, 
Since  slight-of-heart  and  blight-of-heart 
Have  sworn  the  goblet  smacks  of  tears. 
Hurrah  !  for  lane  and  by-way,  etc. 

'Tis  night,  and  lo  !  foul  thieves  have  mobbed 
The  weak  ones  here,  and  left  them  robbed 
Of  hope  and  faith  and  love  and  rest — 
But  sure-of-soul  and  pure-of-soul 
Still  fold  their  treasures  to  their  breast : 
Hurrah  !  for  lane  and  by-way  ; 
For  distant  path  and  nigh- way ; 
For  every  one  whose  journey's  done — 
Who's  gained  the  distant  skyway. , 


TIME. 

A  FROLICKING  fellow  is  Time. 

He  stirs  young  hearts  to  a  vague  desire  ; 
He  blossoms  the  rose,  he  buds  the  briar. 

He  frets  the  ivy  to  start  and  climb, 
He  tunes  the  world  to  a  Summer-rhyme, 

Oh,  a  frolicking  fellow  is  Time. 

A  treacherous  tyrant  is  Time. 
Young  hearts'  desires  he  ne'er  fulfils : 

He  blights  the  rose,  and  the  bud  he  kills ; 
The  garden  gathers  his  gift  of  grime ; 

The  still  pool  sleeps  'neath  his  sheet  of  slime ; 

Oh,  a  treacherous  tyrant  is  Time. 

Yet  a  comforting  comrade  is  Time. 
He  heals  young  hearts  of  their  piercing  pain, 

With  his  soothing  simples  and  tender  rain. 
The  bare  world,  gives  he,  a  robe  of  rime, 
Till  it  glisters  far  like  a  thing  sublime. 

Oh,  a  comforting  comrade  is  Time. 


440  YO  UNGER  AMERICA  N  POE  TS. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTOK 

[Born  at  Pomfret,  Connecticut,  U.S.A.  Author  of  the  following 
books,  all  published  by  Roberts  Brothers,  Boston,  Massachusetts. 
Bed-Time  Stories  (1873) ;  More  Bed-Time  Stories  (1874) ;  Some 
Women's  Hearts  (1874)  ;  Poems  (1877),  also  published  under 
the  title  of  Swallow-Flights,  by  Macmillan  &  Co.,  London. 
More  Bed-Time  Stories  (1880)  ;  Random  Rambles  (1881) ;  Fire 
light  Stories  (1883)  ;  Ourselves  and  Our  Neighbours  (1887) ; 
also,  in  1887,  edited  a  selection  of  Philip  Bourke  Marston's 
poems,  entitled  Garden  Secrets,  with  a  Biographical  Sketch 
of  P.  B.  M.  ;  Miss  Eyre  from  Boston,  and  Others  (1889)  ;  and 
In  the  Garden  of  Dreams,  Roberts  Bros.,  Boston,  and  Mac 
millan  &  Co.,  London.] 

A  PAINTED  FAN. 

ROSES  and  butterflies  snared  on  a  fan, 

All  that  is  left  of  a  summer  gone  by ; 
Of  swift  bright  wings  that  flashed  in  the  sun, 

And  loveliest  blossoms  that  bloomed  to  die  ; 

By  what  subtle  spell  did  you  lure  them  here — 
Fixing  a  beauty  that  will  not  change — 

Roses  whose  petals  never  will  fall, 

Bright,  swift  wings  that  never  will  range  1 

Had  you  owned  but  the  skill  to  snare  as  well 
The  swift-winged  hours  that  came  and  went, 

To  prison  the  words  that  in  music  died, 
And  fix  with  a  spell  the  heart's  content, 

Then  had  you  been  of  magicians  the  chief ; 

And  loved  and  lovers  should  bless  your  art, 
If  you  could  but  have  painted  the  soul  of  the  thing, — 

Not  the  rose  alone,  but  the  rose's  heart ! 

Flown  are  those  days  with  their  winged  delights, 
As  the  odour  is  gone  from  the  summer  rose ; 

Yet  still,  whenever  I  wave  my  fan, 

The  soft,  south  wind  of  memory  blows. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  441 

THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH. 

NOT  a  hand  has  lifted  the  latchet 
Since  she  went  out  of  the  door — 

No  footstep  shall  cross  the  threshold 
Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 

There  is  rust  upon  locks  and  hinges, 
And  mould  and  blight  on  the  walls, 

And  silence  faints  in  the  chambers, 
And  darkness  waits  in  the  halls — 

Waits  as  all  things  have  waited 

Since  she  went,  that  day  of  spring, 

Borne  in  her  pallid  splendour 

To  dwell  in  the  Court  of  the  King : 

With  lilies  on  brow  and  bosom, 

With  robes  of  silken  sheen, 
And  her  wonderful,  frozen  beauty, 

The  lilies  and  silk  between. 

Red  roses  she  left  behind  her, 

But  they  died  long  long  ago — 
'Twas  the  odorous  ghost  of  a  blossom 

That  seemed  through  the  dusk  to  glow. 

The  garments  she  left  mock  the  shadows 

With  hints  of  womanly  grace, 
And  her  image  swims  in  the  mirror 

That  was  so  used  to  her  face. 

The  birds  make  insolent  music 
Where  the  sunshine  riots  outside, 

And  the  winds  are  merry  and  wanton 
With  the  summer's  pomp  and  pride. 

But  into  this  desolate  mansion, 

Where  love  has  closed  the  door, 
Nor  sunshine  nor  summer  shall  enter, 

Since  she  can  come  in  no  more. 


442  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

HO  W  LONG. 

IF  on  my  grave  the  summer  grass  were  growing, 
Or  heedless  winter  winds  across  it  blowing, 
Through  joyous  June,  or  desolate  December, 
How  long,  sweetheart,  how  long  would  you  remember, 
[jfio.-..-   How  Jong,  dear  love,  how  long? 

For  brightest  eyes  would  open  to  the  summer, 
And  sweetest  smiles  would  greet  the  sweet  new-comer, 
And  on  young  lips  grow  kisses  for  the  taking, 
When  all  the  summer  buds  to  bloom  are  breaking, 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

To  the  dim  land  where  sad-eyed  ghosts  walk  only, 
Where  lips  are  cold,  and  waiting  hearts  are  lonely, 
I  would  not  call  you  from  your  youth's  warm  blisses, 
Fill  up  your  glass  and  crown  it  with  new  kisses — 
How  long,  dear  love,  how  long  ? 

Too  gay  in  June  you  might  be  to  regret  me, 
And  living  lips  might  woo  you  to  forget  me  ; 
But  ah,  sweetheart,  I  think  you  would  remember, 
When  winds  were  weary  in  your  life's  December — 
So  long,  dear  love,  so  long. 


WE  LAY  US  DOWN  TO  SLEEP. 

WE  lay  us  down  to  sleep, 
And  leave  to  God  the  rest; 

Whether  to  wake  and  weep 
Or  wake  no  more  be  best 

Why  vex  our  souls  with  care  ? 
The  grave  is  cool  and  low; 

Have  we  found  life  so  fail- 
That  we  should  dread  to  go  1 

We've  kissed  love's  sweet  red  lips, 
And  left  them  sweet  and  red  ; 

The  rose  the  wild  bee  sips 
Blooms  on  when  he  is  dend. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  443 

Some  faithful  friends  we've  found, 

But  they  who  love  us  best, 
When  we  are  under  ground 

Will  laugh  on  with  the  rest. 
No  task  have  we  begun 

But  other  hands  can  take ; 
No  work  beneath  the  sun 

For  which  we  need  to  wake. 
Then  hold  us  fast,  sweet  Death, 

If  so,  it  seemeth  best 
To  Him  who  gave  us  breath 

That  we  should  go  to  rest. 
We  lay  us  down  to  sleep, 

Our  weary  eyes  we  close ; 
Whether  to  wake  and  weep 

Or  wake  no  more,  He  knows. 


"  IF  THERE   WERE  DREAMS  TO  SELL." 

' '  If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
What  would  you  buy  ?  " — BEDDOES. 

IF  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Do  I  not  know  full  well 

What  I  would  buy  ? 
Hope's  dear,  delusive  spell, 
Its  happy  tale  to  tell — 

Joy's  fleeting  sigh. 
I  would  be  young  again — 
Youth's  madding  bliss  and  bane 

I  would  recapture — 
Though  it  were  keen  with  pain, 
All  else  seems  void  and  vain 

To  that  fine  rapture. 
I  would  be  glad  once  more — 
Slip  through  an  open  door 

Into  Life's  glory — 
Keep  what  I  spent  of  yore, 
Find  what  I  lost  before — 

Hear  an  old  story. 


444  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

As  it  of  old  befell, 

Breaking  Death's  frozen  spell, 

Love  should  draw  nigh  : — 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Do  I  not  know  too  well 

What  I  would  buy  ? 


WHEN  DA  Y  WAS  DONE. 
THE  clouds  that  watched  in  the  west  have  fled ; 

The  sun  has  set  and  the  moon  is  high  ; 
And  nothing  is  left  of  the  day  that  is  dead 

Save  a  fair  white  ghost  in  the  eastern  sky. 

While  the  day  was  dying  we  knelt  and  yearned, 
And  hoped  and  prayed  till  its  last  breath  died ; 

But  since  to  a  radiant  ghost  it  has  turned, 
Shall  we  rest  with  that  white  grace  satisfied  1 

The  fair  ghost  smiles,  with  a  pale  cold  smile, 
As  mocking  as  life,  and  as  hopeless  as  death — 

Shall  passionless  beauty  like  this  beguile  1 

Who  loves  a  ghost,  without  feeling  or  breath  ? 

I  remember  a  maiden,  as  fair  to  see, 

Who  once  was  alive,  with  a  heart  like  June ; 

She  died,  but  her  spirit  wanders  free, 

And  charms  men's  souls  to  the  old,  mad  tune. 

Warm  she  was,  in  her  life's  glad  day ; 

Warm  and  fair,  and  faithful  and  sweet ; 
A  man  might  have  thrown  a  kingdom  away 

To  kneel  and  love  at  her  girlish  feet. 

But  the  night  came  down,  and  her  day  was  done ; 

Hoping  and  dreaming  were  over  for  aye ; 
And  then  her  career  as  a  ghost  was  begun — 

Cold  she  shone,  like  the  moon  on  high. 

For  maiden  or  moon  shall  a  live  man  yearn  ? 

Shall  a  breathing  man  love  a  ghost  without  breath  1 
Shine,  moon,  and  chill  us — you  cannot  burn — 

Go  home,  girl-ghost,  to  your  kingdom  of  death. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  445 

AT  END, 

AT  end  of  Love,  at  end  of  Life, 
At  end  of  Hope,  at  end  of  Strife, 
At  end  of  all  we  cling  to  so, 
The  sun  is  setting — must  we  go  1 

At  dawn  of  Love,  at  dawn  of  Life, 
At  dawn  of  Peace  that  follows  Strife, 
At  dawn  of  all  we  long  for  so, 
The  sun  is  rising — let  us  go  ! 


HEART,  SAD  HEART:  A  RONDEL. 

HEART,  sad  heart,  for  what  are  you  pleading  ? 

The  sun  has  set  and  the  night  is  cold ; 

To  go  on  hoping  were  over  bold — 
Dead-  is  the  fire  for  want  of  feeding. 

Tears  are  keeping  your  eyes  from  reading 
The  old,  old  story,  so  often  told ; 

Heart,  sad  heart,  for  what  are  you  pleading  ? 
The  sun  has  set,  and  the  night  is  cold. 

The  wind  and  the  rain  in  the  dark  are  breeding 
Storms  to  sweep  over  valley  and  wold ; 
Love,  the  outcast,  with  longing  bold, 
Clamours  and  prays  to  a  power  unheeding — 
Heart,  sad  heart,  for  what  are  you  pleading  1 


WIFE  TO  HUSBAND. 

WHEN  I  am  dust,  and  thou  art  quick  and  glad, 
Bethink  thee,  sometimes,  what  good  days  we  had, 
What  happy  days,  beside  the  shining  seas, 
Or  by  the  twilight  fire,  in  careless  ease, 
Reading  the  rhymes  of  some  old  poet  lover, 
Or  whispering  our  own  love-story  over. 

When  thou  hast  mourned  for  me  a  seemly  space, 
And  set  another  in  my  vacant  place, 


446  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Charmed  with  her  brightness,  trusting  in  her  truth, 
Warmed  to  new  life  by  her  beguiling  youth, 
Be  happy,  dearest  one,  and  surely  "know 
/  would  not  have  thee  thy  life's  joys  forego. 

Yet  think  of  me  sometimes,  where,  cold  and  still, 
I  lie,  who  once  was  swift  to  do  thy  will, 
Whose  lips  so  often  answered  to  thy  kiss, 
Who,  dying,  blessed  thee  for  that  by-gone  bliss  : 
I  pray  thee  do  not  bar  my  presence  quite 
From  thy  new  life,  so  full  of  new  delight. 

I  would  not  vex  thee,  waiting  by  thy  side ; 

My  presence  should  not  chill  thy  fair  young  bride 

Only  bethink  thee  how  alone  I  lie : 

To  die  and  be  forgotten  were  to  die 

A  double  death ;  and  /  deserve  of  thee 

Some  grace  of  memory,  fair  howe'er  she  be. 


THE  VENUS  OF  BURNE  JONES. 

PALLID  with  too  much  longing, 
White  with  passion  and  prayer, 

Goddess  of  love  and  beauty, 
She  sits  in  the  picture  there — 

Sits,  with  her  dark  eyes  seeking 
Something  more  subtle  still 

Than  the  old  delights  of  loving 
Her  measureless  days  to  fill. 

She  has  loved  and  been  loved  so  often, 
In  her  long,  immortal  years, 

That  she  tires  of  the  worn-out  rapture, 
Sickens  of  hopes  and  fears. 

No  joys  or  sorrows  move  her — 
Done  with  her_ancient  pride, 

For  her  head  she  found  too  heavy 
The  crown  she  has  cast  aside. 


LOUISE  CHANDLER  MOULTON.  447 

Clothed  in  her  scarlet  splendour, 

Bright  with  her  glory  of  hair, 
Sad  that  she  is  not  mortal, 

Eternally  sad  and  fair, 

Longing  for  joys  she  knows  not, 

Athirst  with  a  vain  desire, 
There  she  sits,  in  the  picture, 

Daughter  of  foam  and  fire. 


THE  LAST  GOOD-BYE. 

How  shall  we  know  it  is  the  last  good-bye  ? 

The  skies  will  not  be  darkened  in  that  hour, 
No  sudden  blight  will  fall  on  leaf  or  flower, 
No  single  bird  will  hush  its  careless  cry, 

And  you  will  hold  my  hands,  and  smile  or  sigh 
Just  as  before.     Perchance  the  sudden  tears 
In  your  dear  eyes  will  answer  to  my  fears  ; 
But  there  will  come  no  voice  of  prophecy  : 

No  voice  to  whisper,  "  Now,  and  not  again, 

Space  for  last  words,  last  kisses,  and  last  prayer, 
For  all  the  wild,  unmitigated  pain 

Of  those  who,  parting,  clasp  hands  with  despair." 

"  Who  knows  ? "  we  say,  but  doubt  and  fear  remain, 
Would  any  choose  to  part  thus  unaware  ? 


AFTER  DEATH, 

And  very  sweet  it  is 
To  know  he  still  is  warm,  though  I  am  cold. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 

I  WOULD  not  have  thee  warm  when  I  am  cold ; 

But  both  together — 'neath  some  sylvan  mound, 
Amid  the  pleasant  secrets  under  ground, 

Where  green  things  flourish  in  the  embracing  mould, 

And  jealous  seeds  the  souls  of  blossoms  hold — 
In  some  sweet  fellowship  of  silence  bound, 
Deeper  than  life,  more  exquisite  than  sound, 

Rest  tranquilly  while  Love's  new  tales  are  told. 


448  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

We  will  not  grudge  the  waking  world  its  bliss — 
Its  joy  of  speech,  its  gladness  of  surprise, 

"When  lovers  clasp  each  other's  hands  and  kiss, 
And  earth  puts  on  new  glory  to  their  eyes  : 
We,  lying  there,  with  Death's  deep  knowledge  wise, 

Will  know  that  we  have  found  Life's  best  in  this. 


THE  CUP  OF  DEATH. 

FOR   A    PICTURE    BY    ELIHU    VEDDER. 

SHE  bends  her  lovely  head  to  taste  thy  draught, 
O  thou  stern  "Angel  of  the  Darker  Cup," 
With  thee  to-night  in  the  dim  shades  to  sup, 

Where  all  they  be  who  from  that  cup  have  quaffed. 

She  had  been  glad  in  her  own  loveliness,  and  laughed 
At  Life's  strong  enemies  who  lie  in  wait, 
Had  kept  with  golden  youth  her  queenly  state, 

All  unafraid  of  Sorrow's  threat'ning  shaft. 

Then  human  Grief  found  out  her  human  heart, 
And  she  was  fain  to  go  where  pain  is  dumb ; 
So  Thou  wert  welcome,  Angel  dread  to  see, 
And  she  fares  onward  with  thee  willingly, 
To  dwell  where  no  man  loves,  no  lovers  part — 
So  Grief  that  is  makes  welcome  Death  to  come. 


HICJACET. 

So  love  is  dead  that  has  been  quick  so  long ! 
Close,  then,  his  eyes,  and  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
With  eglantine  and  myrtle  on  his  breast, 

And  leave  him  there,  their  pleasant  scents  among 

And  chant  a  sweet  and  melancholy  song 
About  the  charms  of  which  he  was  possest, 
And  how  of  all  things  he  was  loveliest, 

And  to  compare  with  aught  were  him  to  wrong. 


NORA  PERRY.  449 

Leave  him,  beneath  the  still  and  solemn  stars, 
That  gather  and  look  down  from  their  far  place, 
With  their  long  calm  our  brief  woes  to  deride, 
Until  the  Sun  the  Morning's  gate  unbars, 

And  mocks,  in  turn,  our  sorrows  with  his  face — 
And  yet,  had  Love  been  Love,  he  had  not  died. 


A  CRY. 

O  WANDERER  in  unknown  lands,  what  cheer  ? 

How  dost  thou  fare  on  thy  mysterious  way  ? 
What  strange  light  breaks  upon  thy  distant  day, 
Yet  leaves  me  lonely  in  the  darkness  here  ? 

0  bide  no  longer  in  that  far-off  sphere, 

Though  all  Heaven's  cohorts  should  thy  footsteps  stay. 
Break  through  their  splendid,  militant  array, 
And  answer  to  my  call,  O  dead  and  dear ! 

1  shall  not  fear  thee,  howsoe'er  thou  come. 

Thy  coldness  will  not  chill,  though  Death  is  cold — 
A  touch  and  I  shall  know  thee,  or  a  breath ; 
Speak  the  old,  well-known  language,  or  be  dumb ; 
Only  come  back  !     Be  near  me  as  of  old, 
So  thou  and  I  shall  triumph  over  Death  ! 


NORA  PERRY. 

[Born  in  Massachusetts.  Author  of  sifter  the  Ball,  and  other  Poems 
(Boston,  1874  and  1879);  The  Tragedy  of  the  Unexpected,  and 
other  Stories  (1880) ;  Her  Lover's  Friend  (1880) ;  Book  of  Love 
Stories  (1881) ;  For  a  Woman  (1885);  New  Songs  and  Ballads 
(1886) ;  and  A  Flock  of  Girls  (1887).  The  poems  quoted  are 
given  by  permission  of  the  author,  with  the  kind  consent  of 
Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

• 

AFTER  THE  BALL. 

THEY  sat  and  combed  their  beautiful  hair, 
Their  long  bright  tresses,  one  by  one, 

As  they  laughed  and  talked  in  the  chamber  there, 
After  the  revel  was  done. 
2? 


450  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Idly  they  talked  of  waltz  and  quadrille ; 

Idly  they  laughed  like  other  girls, 
Who  over  the  fire,  when  all  is  still, 

Comb  out  their  braids  and  curls. 

Robes  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Knots  of  flowers  and  ribbons  too, 

Scattered  about  in  every  place 
For  the  revel  is  through. 

And  Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 
The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Stockingless,  slipperless,  sit  in  the  night, 
For  the  revel  is  done. 

Sit  and  comb  their  beautiful  hair, 

Those  wonderful  waves  of  brown  and  gold, 

Till  the  fire  is  out  in  the  chamber  there, 
And  the  little  feet  are  cold. 

Then  out  of  the  gathering  winter  chill, 
All  out  of  the  bitter  St  Agnes  weather, 

While  the  fire  is  out  and  the  house  is  still, 
Maud  and  Madge  together, — 

Maud  and  Madge  in  robes  of  white, 

The  prettiest  night-gowns  under  the  sun, 

Curtained  away  from  the  chilly  night, 
After  the  revel  is  done, — 

Float  along  in  a  splendid  dream, 
To  a  golden  gittern's  tinkling  tune, 

While  a  thousand  lustres  shimmering  stream, 
In  a  palace's  grand  saloon. 

Flashing  of  jewels  and  flutter  of  laces, 
Tropical  odours  sweeter  than  musk, 

Men  and*women  with  beautiful  faces 
And  eyes  of  tropical  dusk, — 

And  one  face  shining  out  like  a  star, 
One  face  haunting  the  dreams  of  each, 

And  one  voice  sweeter  than  others  are, 
Breaking  into  silvery  speech — 


NORA  PERRY.  451 

Telling,  through  lips  of  bearded  bloom, 

An  old,  old  story  over  again, 
As  down  the  royal  bannered  room, 

To  the  golden  gittern's  strain, 

Two  and  two,  they  dreamily  walk, 
While  an  unseen  spirit  walks  beside 

And  all  unheard  in  the  lover's  talk 
He  claimeth  one  for  a  bride. 

Oh  Maud  and  Madge,  dream  on  together, 

With  never  a  pang  of  jealous  fear  ! 
For,  ere  the  bitter  St  Agnes  weather 

Shall  whiten  another  year, 

Robed  for  the  bridal,  and  robed  for  the  tomb, 
Braided  brown  hair  and  golden  tress, 

There'll  be  only  one  of  you  left  for  the  bloom 
Of  the  bearded  lips  to  press, — 

Only  one  for  the  bridal  pearls, 

The  robe  of  satin  and  Brussels  lace, 
Only  one  to  blush  through  her  curls 

At  the  sight  of  a  lover's  face. 

Oh  beautiful  Madge,  in  your  bridal  white, 

For  you  the  revel  has  just  begun  : 
But  for  her  who  sleeps  in  your  arms  to-night, 

The  revel  of  life  is  done  ! 

But  robed  and  crowned  with  your  saintly  bliss, 
Queen  of  heaven  and  bride  of  the  Sun, 

Oh  beautiful  Maud  you  will  never  miss 
The  kisses  another  hath  won  ! 


TYING  HER  BONNET  UNDER  HER  CHIN. 
TYING  her  bonnet  under  her  chin. 
She  tied  her  raven  ringlets  in  ; 
But  not  alone  in  the  silken  snare 
Did  she  catch  her  lovely  floating  hair, 


452  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

For,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

They  were  strolling  together  up  the  hill, 
Where  the  wind  comes  blowing  merry  and  chill, 
And  it  blew  the  curls  a  frolicsome  race, 
All  over  the  happy  peach-coloured  face, 
Till,  scolding  and  laughing,  she  tied  them  in, 
Under  her  beautiful  dimpled  chin. 

And  it  blew  a  colour,  bright  as  the  bloom 
Of  the  pinkest  fuschia's  tossing  plume, 
All  over  the  cheeks  of  the  prettiest  girl 
That  ever  imprisoned  a  romping  curl, 
Or,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
Tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

Steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  hill ; 
Madder,  merrier,  chillier  still 
The  western  wind  blew  down,  and  played 
The  wildest  tricks  with  the  little  maid 
As,  tying  her  bonnet  under  her  chin, 
She  tied  a  young  man's  heart  within. 

0  western  wind,  do  you  think  it  was  fair, 

To  play  such  tricks  with  her  floating  hair? 

To  gladly,  gleefully  do  your  best 

To  blow  her  against  the  young  man's  breast, 

Where  he  as  gladly  folded  her  in, 

And  kissed  her  mouth  and  her  dimpled  chin  1 

Ah  Ellery  Vane,  you  little  thought, 
An  hour  ago,  when  you  besought 
This  country  lass  to  walk  with  you, 
After  the  sun  had  dried  the  dew, 
What  perilous  danger  you'd  be  in, 
As  she  tied  her  bonnet  under  her  chin  ! 


NORA  PERRY. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  ROSE. 

IT  is  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago 
Since  the  day  the  Count  de  Rochambeau — 
Our  ally  against  the  British  crown — 
Met  Washington  in  Newport  town. 

'Twas  the  month  of  March,  and  the  air  was  chill, 
But,  bareheaded  over  Aquedneck  hill, 
Guest  and  host  they  took  their  way, 
While  on  either  side  in  grand  display 

A  gallant  army,  French  and  fine, 
Was  ranged  three  deep  in  a  glittering  line ; 
And  the  French  fleet  sent  a  welcome  roar 
Of  a  hundred  guns  from  Conauicut  shore ; 

And  the  bells  rang  out  from  every  steeple, 
And  from  street  to  street  the  Newport  people 
Followed  and  cheered,  with  a  hearty  zest, 
De  Rochambeau  and  his  honoured  guest. 

And  women  out  of  the  windows  lent, 
And  out  of  the  windows  smiled  and  sent 
Many  a  coy  admiring  glance 
To  the  fine  young  officers  of  France. 

And  the  story  goes  that  the  belle  of  the  town 
Kissed  a  rose  and  flung  it  down 
Straight  at  the  feet  of  de  Rochambeau ; 
And  the  gallant  Marshal  bending  low, 

Lifted  it  up  with  a  Frenchman's  grace, 
And  kissed  it  back  with  a  glance  at  the  face 
Of  the  daring  maiden  where  she  stood, 
Blushing  out  of  her  silken  hood. 

That  night  at  the  ball,  still  the  story  goes, 
The  Marshal  of  France  wore  a  faded  rose 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  but  he  looked  in  vain 
For  the  giver's  beautiful  face  again. 


454  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Night  after  night,  and  day  after  day, 
The  Frenchman  eagerly  sought,  they  say, 
At  feast  or  at  church  or  along  the  street, 
For  the  girl  who  flung  the  rose  at  his  feet. 

And  she  night  after  night,  day  after  day, 
Was  speeding  farther  and  farther  away 
From  the  fatal  window,  the  fatal  street, 
Where  her  passionate  heart  had  suddenly  beat 

A  throb  too  much,  for  the  cool  control 

A  Puritan  teaches  to  heart  and  soul ; 

A  throb  too  much  for  the  wrathful  eyes 

Of  one  who  had  watched  in  dismayed  surprise 

From  the  street  below ;  and  taking  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment's  rage, 
He  swore,  this  old  colonial  squire, 
That  before  the  daylight  should  expire 

This  daughter  of  his,  with  her  wit  and  grace, 
Her  dangerous  heart,  and  her  beautiful  face, 
Should  be  on  her  way  to  a  sure  retreat, 
Where  no  rose  of  hers  could  fall  at  the  feet 

Of  a  cursed  Frenchman,  high  or  low  : 
And  so  while  the  Count  de  Rochambeau, 
In  his  gold-laced  coat,  wore  a  faded  flower, 
And  waited  the  giver  hour  by  hour, 

She  was  sailing  away  in  the  wild  March  night 
On  the  little  deck  of  the  sloop  "  Delight ; " 
Guarded  even  in  the  darkness  there 
By  the  wrathful  eyes  of  a  jealous  care. 

Three  weeks  after  a  brig  bore  down 
Into  the  harbour  of  Newport  town 
Towing  a  wreck — 'twas  the  sloop  "  Delight." 
Off  Hampton  rocks  in  the  very  sight 

Of  the  land  she  sought,  she  and  her  crew, 
And  all  on  board  of  her,  full  in  view 
Of  the  storm-bound  fishermen  over  the  bay 
Went  to  their  doom  on  that  April  day. 


NORA  PERRY.  455 

When  Rochambeau  heard  the  terrible  tale, 
He  muttered  a  prayer,  for  a  moment  grew  pale, 
Then  "Mon  Dieu !"  he  exclaimed,  "so  my  fine  romance, 
From  beginning  to  end,  is  a  rose  and  a  glance  !  " 

A  rose  and  a  glance,  with  a  kiss  thrown  in ; 
That  was  all, — but  enough  for  a  promise  of  sin, 
Thought  the  stern  old  squire  when  he  took  the  gauge 
Of  a  woman's  heart  in  that  moment  of  rage. 

So  the  sad  old  story  comes  to  a  close : 
'Tis  a  century  since ;  but  the  world  still  goes 
On  the  same  base  round,  still  takes  the  gauge 
Of  its  highest  hearts  in  a  moment's  rage. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN'S  CHRISTMAS  GIFT. 

'TwAS  in  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-four, 
That  terrible  year  when  the  shock  and  roar 
Of  the  nation's  battles  shook  the  land, 
And  the  fire  leapt  up  into  fury  fanned, — 

The  passionate,  patriotic  fire, 

With  its  throbbing  pulse  and  its  wild  desire 

To  conquer  and  win,  or  conquer  and  die, 

In  the  thick  of  the  fight  when  hearts  beat  high 

With  the  hero's  thrill  to  do  and  to  dare, 

'Twixt  the  bullet's  rush  and  the  muttered  prayer. 

In  the  North  and  the  East,  and  the  great  North- West, 

Men  waited  and  watched  with  eager  zest 

For  news  of  the  desperate,  terrible  strife, — 
For  a  nation's  death  or  a  nation's  life ; 
While  over  the  wires  there  flying  sped 
News  of  the  wounded,  the  dying,  and  dead. 

"  Defeat  and  defeat!     Ah  what  was  the  fault 
Of  the  grand  old  army's  sturdy  assault 
At  Richmond's  gates  ?  "  in  a  querulous  key, 
Men  questioned  at  last  impatiently, 


456  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

As  the  hours  crept  by,  and  day  by  day 
They  watched  the  Potomac  Army  at  bay. 
Defeat  and  defeat !  it  was  here,  just  here. 
In  the  very  height  of  the  fret  and  fear, 

Click,  click  !  across  the  electric  wire 
Came  suddenly  flashing  words  of  fire, 
And  a  great  shout  broke  from  city  and  town 
At  the  news  of  Sherman's  marching  down, — 

Marching  down  on  his  way  to  the  sea 
Through  Georgia  swamps  to  Victory, 
Faster  and  faster  the  great  news  came, 
Flashing  along  like  tongues  of  flame, — 

McAllister  ours  !     And  then,  ah  !  then, 
To  that  patientest,  tenderest,  noblest  of  men, 
This  message  from  Sherman  came  flying  swift; 
"  I  send  you  Savannah  for  a  Christmas  gift ! " 


RIDING    DO  WN. 

O,  DID  you  see  him  riding  down, 
And  riding  down,  while  all  the  town 
Came  out  to  see,  came  out  to  see, 
And  all  the  bells  rang  mad  with  glee  ? 

Oh,  did  you  hear  those  bells  ring  out, 
The  bells  ring  out,  the  people  shout, 
And  did  you  hear  that  cheer  on  cheer 
That  over  all  the  bells  rang  clear  ? 

And  did  you  see  the  waving  flags, 

The  fluttering  flags,  the  tattered  flags, 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  shot  through  and  through, 

Baptized  with  battle's  deadly  dew  ? 

And  did  you  hear  the  drum's  gay  beat, 
The  drum's  gay  beat,  the  bugles  sweet, 
The  cymbals  clash,  the  cannon's  crash, 
That  rent  the  sky  with  sound  and  flash  ? 


NORA  PERRY.  457 

And  did  you  see  me  waiting  there, 
Just  waiting  there  and  watching  there, 
One  little  lass,  amid  the  mass 
That  pressed  to  see  the  hero  pass  ? 

And  did  you  see  him  smiling  down, 
And  smiling  down,  as  riding  down 
With  slowest  pace,  with  stately  grace, 
He  caught  the  vision  of  a  face, — 

My  face  uplifted,  red  and  white, 
Turned  red  and  white  with  sheer  delight, 
To  meet  the  eyes,  the  smiling  eyes, 
Out  flashing  in  their  swift  surprise  ? 

O,  did  you  see  how  swift  it  came, 
How  swift  it  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
That  smile  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see  1 

And  at  the  windows  all  along, 
O  all  along,  a  lovely  throng 
Of  faces  fair  beyond  compare, 
Beamed  out  upon  him  riding  there  ! 

Each  face  was  like  a  radiant  gem, 
A  sparkling  gem,  and  yet  for  them 
No  swift  smile  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
No  arrowy  glance  took  certain  aim. 

He  turned  away  from  all  their  grace, 
From  all  that  grace  of  perfect  face, 
He  turned  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see  ! 


CRESSID. 

HAS  any  one  seen  my  Fair, 
Has  any  one  seen  my  Dear  ? 
Could  any  one  tell  me  where 
And  whither  she  went  from  here  ? 


4$8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  road  is  winding  and  long, 
With  many  a  turn  and  twist, 
And  one  could  easy  go  wrong, 
Or  ever  one  thought  or  list. 

How  should  one  know  my  Fair, 
And  how  should  one  know  my  Dear  ? 
By  the  dazzle  of  sunlight  hair 
That  smites  like  a  golden  spear. 

By  the  eyes  that  say  "  Beware," 
By  the  smile  that  beckons  you  near, — 
This  is  to  know  my  fair, 
This  is  to  know  my  Dear. 

Rough  and  bitter  as  gall 

The  Voice  that  suddenly  comes 

Over  the  windy  wall 

Where  the  fisherman  have  their  homes 

"  Ay,  ay,  we  know  full  well 
The  way  your  fair  one  went : 
She  led  by  the  ways  of  Hell, 
And  into  its  torments  sent 

"The  boldest  and  bravest  here, 
Who  knew  nor  guilt  nor  guile, 
Who  knew  not  shadow  of  fear 
Till  he  followed  that  beckoning  smile. 

"  Now  would  you  find  your  Fair, 
Now  would  you  find  your  Dear  1 
Go,  turn  and  follow  her  where 
And  whither  she  went  from  here, 

"Along  by  the  winding  path 
That  leads  by  the  old  sea-wall : 
The  wind  blows  wild  with  wrath, 
And  one  could  easily  fall 

"  From  over  the  rampart  there, 
If  one  should  lean  too  near, 
To  look  for  the  sunlight  hair 
That  smites  like  a  golden  spear  !  ' 


ELIZABETH  STUART  P HELPS   WARD.     459 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD. 

[Born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts,  31st  August  1844.  Author  of 
The  Gates  Ajar  (1868) ;  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts  (1869) ;  Hedged 
In  (1870);  The  Silent  Partner  (1870);  Poetic  Studies  (1875); 
The  Story  of  Avis  (1877) ;  My  Cousin  and  I  (1879) ;  Old  Maids' 
Paradise  (1879) ;  Sealed  Orders  (1879) ;  Friends,  a  Duet  (1881); 
Dr  Zay  (1882) ;  Beyond  the  Gates  (1883) ;  The  Gates  Between 
(1887);  Jack,  the  Fisherman  (1887);  and  The  Master  of 
Magicians,  with  Herbert  D.  Ward  ;  also  Come  Forth,  collabor 
ated  with  Herbert  D.  Ward  (1890).  The  poems  quoted  are 
given  with  the  kind  permission  of  Hough  ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 


ALL  THE  RIVERS. 

"ALL  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Like  the  pulsing  of  a  river, 
The  motion  of  a  song, 
Wind  the  olden  words  along 
The  tortuous  turnings  of  my  thoughts  whenever 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"  All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
O  you  little  leaping  river, 
Laugh  on  beneath  your  breath  ! 
With  a  heart  as  deep  as  death, 
Strong  stream,  go  patient,  grave,  and  hasting  never,  - 
I  sit  beside  the  sea. 

"All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
Why  the  passion  of  a  river  ? 
The  striving  of  a  soul  ? 
Calm  the  eternal  waters  roll 
Upon  the  eternal  shore.     At  last,  whatever 
Seeks,  shall  find  the  sea. 

"All  the  rivers  run  into  the  sea." 
O  thou  bounding,  burning  river, 
Hurrying  heart !     I  seem 
To  know  (so  one  knows  in  a  dream) 
That  waiting  heart  of  God  forever, 
Thou  too  shalt  find  the  sea. 


460  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

IT  chanceth  once  to  every  soul, 

Within  a  narrow  hour  of  doubt  and  dole, 

Upon  Life's  bridge  of  Sighs  to  stand, 
"A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand." 

O  palace  of  the  rose-heart's  hue ! 

How  like  a  flower  the  warm  light  falls  from  you  ! 

O  prison  with  the  hollow  eyes  ! 

Beneath  your  stony  stare  no  flowers  arise  ! 

O  palace  of  the  rose-sweet  sin  ! 

How  safe  the  heart  that  does  not  enter  in  ! 

O  blessed  prison-walls  !  how  true 

The  freedom  of  the  soul  that  chooseth  you  ! 


AFTER  WARD. 

THERE  is  no  vacant  chair.     The  loving  meet, 
A  group  unbroken — smitten,  who  knows  how  ? 

One  sitteth  silent  only,  in  his  usual  seat ; 

We  gave  him  once  that  freedom.     Why  not  now  ? 

Perhaps  he  is  too  weary,  and  needs  rest ; 

He  needed  it  too  often,  nor  could  we 
Bestow.     God  gave  it,  knowing  how  to  do  so  best. 

Which  of  us  would  disturb  him  ?     Let  him  be. 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.     If  he  will  take 

The  mood  to  listen  mutely,  be  it  done. 
By  his  least  mood  we  crossed,  for  which  the  heart  must  ache, 

Plead  not  nor  question  !     Let  him  have  this  one. 

Death  is  a  mood  of  life.     It  is  no  whim 

By  which  life's  Giver  mocks  a  broken  heart. 

Death  is  life's  reticence.     Still  audible  to  Him, 
The  hushed  voice,  happy,  speaketh  on,  apart. 


ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS    WARD.     461 

There  is  no  vacant  chair.     To  love  is  still 
To  have.     Nearer  to  memory  than  to  eye. 

And  dearer  yet  to  anguish  than  to  comfort,  will 
We  hold  by  our  love,  that  shall  not  die. 

For  while  it  doth  not,  thus  he  cannot.     Try ! 

Who  can  put  out  the  motion  or  the  smile  ? 
The  old  ways  of  being  noble  all  with  him  laid  by  ? 

Because  we  love,  he  is.     Then  trust  awhile. 


GALATEA. 

A  MOMENT'S  grace,  Pygmalion  !     Let  me  be 
A  breath's  space  longer  on  this  hither  hand 
Of  fate  too  sweet,  too  sad,  too  mad  to  meet. 
Whether  to  be  thy  statue  or  thy  bride — 
An  instant  spare  me  !     Terrible  the  choice, 
As  no  man  knoweth,  being  only  man; 
Nor  any,  saving  her  who  hath  been  stone 
And  loved  her  sculptor.     Shall  I  dare  exchange 
Veins  of  the  quarry  for  the  throbbing  pulse  ? 
Insensate  calm  for  a  sure-aching  heart? 
Repose  eternal  for  a  woman's  lot  ? 
Forego  God's  quiet  for  the  love  of  man  1 
To  float  on  his  uncertain  tenderness, 
A  wave  tossed  up  the  sea  of  his  desire, 
To  ebb  and  flow  whene'er  it  pleaseth  him ; 
Remembered  at  his  leisure,  and  forgot. 
Worshipped  and  worried,  clasped  and  dropped  at  mood, 
Or  soothed  or  gashed  at  mercy  of  his  will, 
Now  Paradise  my  portion,  and  now  Hell ; 
And  every  single  severed  nerve  that  beats 
In  soul  or  body,  like  some  rare  vase,  thrust 
Tn  fire  at  first,  and  then  in  frost,  until 
The  fine,  protesting  fibre  snaps  ? 


462  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE TS. 

Oh,  who 

Foreknowing,  ever  chose  a  fate  like  this  1 
What  woman  out  of  all  the  breathing  world 
Would  be  a  woman,  could  her  heart  select 
Or  love  her  lover,  could  her  life  prevent  1 
Thus  let  me  be  that  only,  only  one ; 
Thus  let  me  make  that  sacrifice  supreme, 
No  other  ever  made,  or  can,  or  shall. 
Behold  the  future  shall  stand  still  to  ask, 
What  man  was  worth  a  price  so  isolate  ? 
And  rate  thee  at  its  value  for  all  time. 

For  I  am  driven  by  an  awful  Law. 
See  !  while  I  hesitate,  it  mouldeth  me, 
And  carves  me  like  a  chisel  at  my  heart. 
'Tis  stronger  than  the  woman  or  the  man: 
'Tis  greater  than  all  torment  or  delight ; 
'Tis  mightier  than  the  marble  or  the  flesh, 
Obedient  be  the  sculptor  and  the  stone  ! 
Thine  am  I,  thine  at  all  the  cost  of  all 
The  pangs  that  woman  ever  bore  for  man; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  denying  them ; 
Thine  I  elect  to  be,  defying  them  ; 
Thine,  thine  I  dare  to  be,  in  scorn  of  them ; 
And  being  thine  for  ever,  bless  I  them ! 

Pygmalion  !  take  me  from  my  pedestal, 
And  set  me  lower — lower,  Love  ! — that  I 
May  be  a  woman,  and  look  up  to  thee ; 
And  looking,  longing,  loving  take  and  give 
The  human  kisses  worth  the  worst  that  thou 
By  thine  own  nature  shalt  inflict  on  me. 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  A  TT.  463 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT. 

[Born  in  Lexington,  Kentucky,  llth  August  1836.  Author  of 
A  Woman's  Poems  (Boston,  1871) ;  A  Voyage  to  the  Fortunate 
Isles,  and  other  Poems  (1874) ;  That  Neiu  World,  and  other  Poems 
(1876);  Poems  in  Company  with  Children  (1877);  Dramatic 
Persons  and  Moods  (1879) ;  An  Irish  Garland  (Edinburgh, 
1884);  Selected  Poems  (London,  1885);  In  Primrose  Time 
(1886);  and  Child's  World  Ballads  (1887).  The  poems  given 
are  quoted  by  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

THERE   WAS  A  ROSE. 

"  THERE  was  a  rose,"  she  said, 

"  Like  other  roses,  perhaps,  to  you. 
Nine  years  ago  it  was  faint  and  red, 

Away  in  the  cold  dark  dew, 

On  the  dwarf  bush  where  it  grew. 

.  "  Never  any  rose  before 

Was  like  that  rose,  very  well  I  know  ; 
Never  another  rose  any  more 
Will  blow  as  that  rose  did  blow, 
When  the  wet  wind  shook  it  so. 

"  What  do  I  want  ?— Ah,  what  ? 

Why,  I  want  that  rose,  that  wee  one  rose, 
Only  that  rose.     And  that  rose  is  not 

Anywhere  just  now  ?  .   .   .  God  knows 

Where  all  the  old  sweetness  goes. 

"  I  want  that  rose  so  much  ; 

I  would  take  the  world  back  there  to  the  night 
When  I  saw  it  blush  in  the  grass,  to  touch 

It  once  in  that  Autumn  light. 

"  But  a  million  marching  men 

From  the  North  and  the  South  would  arise, 
And  the  dead— would  have  to  die  again  ? 

And  the  women's  widowed  cries 

Would  trouble  anew  the  skies  ! 


464  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"  No  matter.     I  would  not  care ; 

Were  it  not  better  that  this  should  be  ? 
The  sorrow  of  many  the  many  bear, — 

Mine  is  too  heavy  for  me. 

And  I  want  that  rose,  you  see  !  " 
WASHINGTON,  D.C.,  1870. 


IN   DOUBT. 

THROUGH  dream  and  dusk  a  frightened  whisper  said 
"  Lay  down  the  world :  the  one  you  love  is  dead." 
In  the  near  waters,  without  any  cry 
I  sank,  therefore — glad,  oh  so  glad,  to  die  ! 

Therefore,  oh,  next  to  God,  I  pray  you  keep 

Yourself  as  your  own  friend,  the  tried,  the  true. 

Sit  your  own  watch — others  will  surely  sleep. 

Weep  your  own  tears.     Ask  none  to  die  with  you. 


BROKEN  PROMISE. 

AFTEU  strange  stars,  inscrutable,  on  high  ; 

After  strange  seas  beneath  his  floating  feet ; 
After  the  glare  in  many  a  brooding  eye, — 

I  wonder  if  the  cry  of  " Land "  was  sweet? 

Or  did  the  Atlantic  gold,  the  Atlantic  palm, 

The  Atlantic  bird  and  flower,  seem  poor,  at  best, 

To  the  grey  Admiral  under  sun  and  calm, 

After  the  passionate  doubt  and  faith  of  quest  1 


THE  WATCH  OF  A  SWAN. 

I  READ  somewhere  that  a  swan,  snow-white, 
In  the  sun  all  day,  in  the  moon  all  night, 
Alone  by  a  little  grave  would  sit 
Waiting,  and  watching  it. 


SARAH  MORGAN  BR  VAN  PIA  TT.  465 

Up  out  of  the  lake  her  mate  would  rise, 
And  call  her  down  with  his  piteous  cries 
Into  the  waters  still  and  dim  ; — 
With  cries  she  would  answer  him. 

Hai-dly  a  shadow  would  she  let  pass 
Over  the  baby's  cover  of  grass ; 
Only  the  wind  might  dare  to  stir 
The  lily  that  watched  with  her. 

Do  I  think  that  the  swan  was  an  angel  1     Oh, 
I  think  it  was  only  a  swan,  you  know, 
That  for  some  sweet  reason,  winged  and  wild, 
Had  the  love  of  a  bird  for  a  child. 


THE   WITCH  IN  THE  GLASS. 

"MY  mother  says  I  must  not  pass 

Too  near  that  glass; 
She  is  afraid  that  I  will  see 
A  little  witch  that  looks  like  me, 
With  a  red,  red  mouth  to  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  I  should  not  know !  " 

"  Alack  for  all  your  mother's  care  ! 

A  bird  of  the  air, 
A  wistful  wind,  or  (I  suppose 
Sent  by  some  hapless  boy)  a  rose, 
With  breath  too  sweet,  will  whisper  low 
The  very  thing  you  should  not  know  !  " 


COMFOR  T  THR  O  UGH  A   WIND  O  W. 
(CHILD  WITHIN  TO  TRAMP  WITHOUT.) 

IT'S  not  so  nice  here  as  it  looks, 

With  china  that  keeps  breaking  so, 

And  five  of  Mr  Tennyson's  books 
Too  fine  to  look  in — is  it,  though  ' 
2  G 


466  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

If  you  just  had  to  sit  here  (Well !) 
In  satin  chairs  too  blue  to  touch, 

And  look  at  flowers  too  sweet  to  smell, 
In  vases — would  you  like  it  much  ? 

If  you  see  any  flowers,  they  grow, 
And  you  can  find  them  in  the  sun. 

These  are  the  ones  we  buy,  you  know, 
In  winter  time — when  there  are  none  ! 

Then  you  can  sit  on  rocks,  you  see, 
And  walk  about  in  water,  too — 

Because  you  have  no  shoes  !     Dear  me  ! 
How  many  things  they  let  you  do ! 

Then  you  can  sleep  out  in  the  shade 
All  day,  I  guess,  and  all  night  too, 

Because — you  know,  you're  not  afraid 
Of  other  fellows  just  like  you  ! 

You  have  no  house  like  this,  you  know, 
(Where  mamma's  cross,  and  ladies  call)- 

You  have  the  world  to  live  in,  though, 
And  that's  the  prettiest  place  of  all ! 


MAKING  PEACE. 

AFTER  this  feud  of  yours  and  mine 
The  snn  will  shine  ',       * 

After  we  both  forget,  forget, 
The  sun  will  set. 

I  pray  you  think  how  warm  and  sweet 

The  heart  can  beat; 
I  pray  you  think  how  soon  the  rose 

From  grave-dnst  grows. 


MA RGA  RE  T  JUNKIN  PRESTON.  467 


SWEET  World,  if  you  will  hear  me  now : 
I  may  not  own  a  sounding  Lyre 

And  wear  my  name  upon  my  brow 
Like  some  great  jewel  quick  with  tire. 

But  let  me,  singing,  sit  apart, 

In  tender  quiet  with  a  few, 
And  keep  my  fame  upon  my  heart, 

A  little  blush-rose  wet  with  dew. 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON. 

Born  in  Milton,  Pennsylvania  ;  went  to  the  South  early ;  has 
identine'd  herself  with  the  South.  Author  of  Beechenbrook ; 
Old  Songs  and  New  (1870)  ;  Cartoons  (1870) ;  and  For  Love's 
Sake  (1887)  ;  Colonial  Ballads  (1887).  The  poems  quoted  are 
given  with  the  kind  permission  of  Roberts  Brothers  for  "A 
Blemished  Offering,"  and  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  the 
others.] 

A  BLEMISHED  OFFERING. 

"  I  WOULD  my  gift  were  worthier  !  "  sighed  the  Greek, 
As  on  he  goaded  to  the  temple-door 
His  spotted  bullock.     "  Ever  of  our  store 

Doth  Zeus  require  the  best ;  and  fat  and  sleek 

The  ox  I  vowed  to  him — (no  brindled  streak, 

No  fleck  of  dun,)  when  through  the  breaker's  roar 
He  bore  ine  safe,  that  day,  to  Naxos'  shore ; 

And  now,  my  gratitude, — how  seeming — weak  ! 

But  here  be  chalk-pits  !     What  if  I  should  white 

The  blotches,  hiding  all  unfitness  so  ? 

The  victim  in  the  people's  eyes  would  show 
Better  therefore ; — the  sacrificial  rite 

Be  quicker  granted  at  thus  fair  a  sight, 
And  the  great  Zeus  himself  might  never  know." 


468  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

A    BELLE    OF  PRAENESTE. 

CASTELLANI   COLLECTION  OF  ANTIQUES. 


HERE  is  her  toilet-case — a  crust 
O'er  it  of  greenest  classic  rust ; 
Still  with  the  delicate  twist  and  twine 
Visible  of  the  rare  design; 
Even  the  very  casket  where, 

Nearly  three  thousand  years  ago, 
One  who  was  young  and  fresh  and  fair — 

Fair  as  the  fairest  that  you  know — 
Hoarded  her  maiden  treasures.     See, 

Here  is  the  mirror  that  used  to  be 

Able  to  flash  with  silvery  grace 
Back  the  divinity  of  her  face; 
This  is  the  comb — its  carvings  yet 
Perfect — that  knotted  her  braids  of  jet ; 
There's  the  cicada  for  her  brow; 

Arrows  whose  points  are  blunted  now  ; 

Coils  for  her  throat ;  an  unguent  pot 

(Proof  of  some  moulder's  wondrous  skill), 

Ivory  tablet  with  a  blot 
Showing  a  tint  of  the  carmine  still. 

II. 

This  was  her  necklace  :  even  as  I 
Toy  with  its  links  of  threaded  gold, 

She  may  have  toyed,  with  pensive  sigh, 
Drooping  them  through  her  fingers,  while 

Hearing,  perhaps,  with  blushing  smile, 
Under  the  limes,  some  lover  bold 

Telling  a  tale  that's  never  old. 

Here  is  the  fibula  that  lay 

Over  her  heart  for  many  a  day, 

Throbbing  what  time  that  lover  won 

Wreaths  when  Etruscan  games  were  done  ; 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON.  469 

Quivering  under  the  anguished  strain 
When  he  was  borne  from  battle,  slain; 
Rising  and  falling  with  her  breath, 
Warming,  with  life  or  chilled  with  death  ! 

in. 

She — has  she  vanished  who  seems  so  near, 
Drawn  by  this  ancient  cista  here? — 
Faded,  as  faded  those  sunset  dyes 
Into  the  infinite,  awful  skies  ? 
Passed,  as  the  wind  passed  over  the  grain 
Headed  to  ripeness  on  the  plain 
Girdling  Praeneste  ?     Did  she  so 
Perish,  these  centuried  years  ago, 
Leaving  this  only  trace,  whose  rust 
Even  may  mock  her  scattered  dust? 
Can  you  believe  this  streak  of  red 
Lives,  while  her  subtle  soul  is  dead  ? 
Do  the  cicada's  wings  unfold 
Essence  her  spirit  could  not  hold  ? 
Dare  you  avouch  this  bronze  can  be 
Something  immortal  more  than  she  ? 

IV. 

Why  do  I  ask  ?     Somewhere,  somewhere 
Shrouded  in  boundless  depths  of  air 
Nearer  than  we  conceive,  or  far 
Out  of  the  reach  of  sun  or  star, 
Vital  and  sentient,  mind,  heart,  will, 
Waits  this  Belle  of  Praeneste  still, 
Conscious  as  when  in  the  flesh  below, 
Nearly  three  thousand  years  ago — • 
Waits — and  for  what  ?     Ah,  God  doth  know  ! 


470  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


PERSEPHONE. 

LISTEN  what  a  sudden  rustle 

Fills  the  air ! 
All  the  birds  are  in  a  bustle 

Everywhere. 
Such  a  ceaseless  hum  and  twitter 

Overhead, 
Such  a  flash  of  wings  that  glitter, 

Wide  outspread ! 
Far  away  I  hear  a  drumming — 

Tap,  tap,  tap ! 
Can  the  woodpecker  be  coming 

After  sap  1 
Butterflies  are  hovering  over 

(Swarms  on  swarms) 
Yonder  meadow-patch  of  clover 

Like  snow  storms. 
Through  the  vibrant  air  a  tingle 

Buzzingly 
Throbs,  and  o'er  me  sails  a  single 

Bumble-bee ; 
Lissome  sway  ings  make  the  willows 

One  bright  sheen, 
Which  the  breeze  puffs  out  in  billows 

Foaming  green. 
From  the  marshy  brook  that's  smoking 

In  the  fog, 
I  can  catch  the  croon  and  croaking 

Of  a  frog. 
Dog-wood-stars  the  slopes  are  studding, 

And  I  see 
Blooms  upon  the  purple-budding 

Judas-tree. 
Aspen-tassels  thick  are  dropping 

All  about, 
And  the  alder-leaves  are  cropping 

Broader  out ; 


MARGARET  JUNKIN  PRESTON.  47 1 

Mouse-ear  tufts  the  hawthorn  sprinkle, 

Edged  with  rose 
The  dark  bed  of  periwinkle 

Fresher  grows. 
Up  and  down  are  midges  dancing 

On  the  grass ; 
How  their  gauzy  wings  are  glancing 

As  they  pass ! 
What  does  all  this  haste  and  hurry 

Mean,  I  pray — 
All  this  out-door  Hush  and  flurry 

Seen  to-day  ? 
This  presaging  stir  and  humming, 

Chirp  and  cheer, 
Mean  ?  it  means  that  Spring  is  coming : 

Spring  is  here ! 


THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DA  Y. 
(A.D.  1622.) 

"  AND  now,"  said  the  Governor,  gazing  abroad  on  the 

piled-up  store 
Of  the  sheaves  that  dotted  the  clearings  and  covered  the 

meadows  o'er, 
"  'Tis  meet  that  we  render  praises  because  of  this  yield  of 

grain  ; 
'Tis  meet  that  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  be  thanked  for  His 

sun  and  rain. 

"And  therefore  I,  William  Bradford,  (by  the  grace  of 
God  to-day, 

And  the  franchise  of  this  good  people,)  Governor  of  Ply 
mouth,  say, 

Through  virtue  of  vested  power — ye  shall  gather  with 
one  accord, 

And  hold,  in  the  month  November,  Thanksgiving~unto 
the  Lord. 


472  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

"He  hath  granted  us  peace  and  plenty,  and  the  quiet 

we've  sought  so  long; 
He  hath  thwarted  the  wily  savage,  and  kept  him  from 

wrack  and  wrong ; 
And  unto  our  feast  the  Sachem  shall  be  bidden  that  he 

may  know 
We  worship  his  own  Great  Spirit  who  maketh  the  harvests 

grow. 

"  So  shoulder  your  matchlocks,  masters,  there  is  hunting 

of  all  degrees ; 
And  fishermen,  take  your  tackle  and  scour  for  spoil  the 

seas ; 
And  maidens  and  dames  of  Plymouth,  your  delicate  crafts 

employ 
To  honour  our  First  Thanksgiving,  and  make  it  a  feast  of 

Joy! 

"  We  fail  of  the  fruits  and  dainties — we  fail  of  the  old 

home  cheer ; 
Ah  these  are  the  lightest  losses,  mayhap,  that  befall  us 

here ; 
But  see,  in  our  open  clearings,  how  golden  the  melons 

lie; 
Enrich  them  with  sweets  and   spices,  and  give  us  the 

pumpkin-pie ! " 

So  bravely  the  preparations  went  on  for  the  autumn 

feast ; 
The  deer  and  the  bear  were  slaughtered  :  wild  game  from 

the  greatest  to  least 
Was   heaped  in   the   colony  cabins ;   brown  home-brew 

served  for  wine, 
And  the  plum  and  the  grape  of  the  forest  for  orange 

and  peach  and  pine. 

At  length  came  the  day  appointed :  the  snow  had  begun 

to  fall, 
But  the  clang  from  the  meeting-house  belfry  rang  merrily 

over  all, 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  473 

And  summoned  the  folk  of  Plymouth,  who  hastened  with 

glad  accord 
To  listen  to  Elder  Brewster  as  he  fervently  thanked  the 

Lord. 

In  his  seat  sate  Governor  Bradford  :  men,  matrons,  and 

maidens  fair; 
Miles  Standish  and  all  his  soldiers,  with  corslet  and  sword, 

were  there ; 
Aud  sobbing  and  tears  and  gladness  had  each  in  its  turn 

the  sway, 
For  the  grave  of  the  sweet  Rose  Standish  o'ershadowed 

Thanksgiving  day; 

And  when  Massasoit,  the  Sachem,  sat    down  with  his 

hundred  braves, 
And  ate  of  the  varied  riches  of  gardens  and  woods  and 

waves, 
And  looked  on  the  granaried  harvest,  with  a  blow  on 

his  brawny  chest, 
He  muttered,  "  The  Good  Great  Spirit  loves  His  white 

children  best !  " 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR 

Born  at  Henniker,  New  Hampshire.  Author  of  Poems  (Boston, 
1866) ;  A  Russian  Journey  (1872) ;  Poems  (Boston  :  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  1890).  The  poems  quoted  are  by  special  per 
mission.] 

EASTER  MORNING. 

THE  fasts  are  done  ;  the  Aves  said  ; 

The  moon  has  filled  her  horn; 
And  in  the  solemn  night  I  watch 

Before  the  Easter  morn. 
So  pure,  so  still  the  starry  heaven, 

So  hushed  the  brooding  air, 
1  could  hear  the  sweep  of  an  angel's  wings 

If  one  should  earthward  fare  ; — 


474  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Great  Michael  with  his  flaming  sword, 
Sandalphon  bearing  to  the  Lord 
Some  heart-cry  of  despair. 

But  since  the  sunset  glow  went  out, 

And  the  fitful  wind  grew  still, 
No  sound  has  stirred  the  waiting  night, 

No  flash  lit  sky  or  hill. 
Gabriel  nor  Uriel  speeds  to  tell 

Some  heavenly  boon  is  won  ; 
To  other  spheres  in  the  airy  deep 

Their  shining  pathways  run, 
And,  left  of  angel  ministries, 

Alone  upon  celestial  seas 
Earth  circles  round  the  sun. 

Yet  joy  is  here,  for  woods  and  fields 

Thrill  to  the  kiss  of  spring ; 
The  brooks  go  laughing  down  the  glens, 

The  birds  for  gladness  sing ; 
In  forest  glens  the  wind-flowers  wave ; 

The  earliest  violets  blow; 
And  soon  will  come  the  carnival 

Of  orchard  flush  and  snow, 
When  air  is  balm  and  blossoms  fall 
As  if  the  blessed  angels  all 

Brought  Paradise  below. 

Alas  for  April  song  and  bloom  ! 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  tears 
As  I  think  of  the  dead  no  spring  will  wake 

Through  all  the  circling  years  ! 
With  broken  hearts  we  laid  them  down ; 

We  followed  them  with  prayers  ; 
And  warm  and  true  for  aye  we  keep 

Our  love  and  trust  with  theirs ; 
But  silence  shrouds  them  evermore, 
Nor  sun,  nor  star,  nor  sea,  nor  shore, 

A  pitying  message  bears. 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  475 

0  for  a  rift  in  the  arching  heaven  ! 

A  gleam  of  the  jasper  walls  ! 
A  single  note  of  the  holy  hymn 

That  ceaseless  swells  and  falls  ! — 
Their  graves  are  cold,  and  they  never  come 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low, 
Nor  sit  with  us  one  happy  hour 

In  the  firelight's  fading  glow: — 
And  I  dream  till  my  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 
And  all  my  life  o'erpowered  with  fears, 

As  the  night-watches  go. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  west  wind  blowing  free, 

Swift  herald  of  the  dawn; 
Faint  murmurs  answer  from  the  wood ; 

The  night  will  soon  be  gone. 
Sad  soul !  shall  day  from  darkness  rise, 

And  the  rose  unfold  from  the  sod, 
And  the  bare,  brown  hills  grow  beautiful 

When  May  their  slopes  has  trod, — 
While  they  for  whom  the  sun  shone  fair, 
And  rose  and  bird  rejoiced  the  air, 

Sleep  on,  forgot  of  God  ? 

Depart,  drear  visions  of  the  night ! 

We  are  the  dead,  not  they  ! 
High  in  God's  mansions  of  delight 

They  greet  immortal  day  ! 
Look  out !     The  sky  is  flushed  with  gold 

In  glad,  celestial  warning ; 
The  purple  clouds  are  backward  rolled, 

And,  gloom  and  shadows  scorning, 
O'er  grief  and  death  victorious, 
Above  all  glories  glorious, 

Comes  up  the  Easter  morning  ! 


476  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

EL  MAHDI  TO  THE  TRIBES  OF 
THE  SOUDAN. 

(1884.) 

I  HAVE  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord 

As  the  Prophet  heard  of  old ; 
For  me  have  the  blessed  angels 

The  book  of  Fate  unrolled  ; 
Gabriel,  holiest,  highest, 

Flashed  to  my  cave  from  the  sky, 
And  cried,  as  the  dawn  illumed  the  east, 

"  Wake  !  for  the  end  is  nigh  ! 
Speed  !  for  'tis  thine  to  save  the  saints, 

And  their  proud  oppressors  slay, 
And  to  fill  the  earth  with  righteousness 

Before  the  judgment  day." 

Then  he  was  gone  as  the  lightning  goes  ; 

And  my  heart  leapt  up  as  flame ; 
And  forth  I  rushed  to  the  Holy  War 

For  the  glory  of  Allah's  name ; 
And  rippling  river,  and  rustling  reeds, 

And  the  wind  of  the  desert  sighing, 
Echoed  his  cry  as  I  passed  them  by, 

"  Speed  !  for  the  hours  are  flying  !  " 
The  sunbeans  shone,  like  lances  keen, 

Across  the  Meccan  plain ; 
The  roar  of  hosts  was  in  my  ears, 

Their  fury  in  my  brain  ; 
And  I  vowed  to  the  God  of  the  Faithful 

His  Prophet  alone  should  reign  ! 

Now,  who  is  on  the  side  of  God 

To  fight  this  fight  with  me — 
To  break  the  ranks  of  the  Infidels 

And  hurl  them  back  to  the  sea, 
And  all  this  tortured,  trampled  land 

From  greed  and  spoil  to  free  1 — 
This  land  where  the  bitter  cry  goes  up 

From  even  the  lips  of  the  dumb, 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  477 

"  Mata  yathar  El  Mahdi — 

When  will  the  Mahdi  come  1 " 
Who  yearns  for  bliss  in  Paradise  1 

Who  fears  eternal  flame  ? 
Let  him  follow  me  to  the  Holy  War 

For  the  glory  of  Allah's  name  ! 
Leave  your  flocks  on  the  grassy  hills 

Of  cool  Atbara's  stream ; 
Under  the  palms  by  the  lonely  wells 

No  more  at  noontide  dream  ; 
From  Nile's  fair  groves  and  uplands, 

From  meadow  and  marsh  and  mere, 
Throng  to  the  Crescent  banner 

With  lance,  and  shield,  and  spear ! 
Come  on  your  flying  stallions 

From  lordly  Darf  ur's  side ; 
Bold  from  Sahara's  bui'ning  depths 

On  your  swift  camels  ride ; 
The  sun  by  day  shall  bid  you  speed, 

By  night  each  guiding  star, 
Through  the  thorny  wastes  of  Kordofan, 

The  wide  plains  of  Sennaar  ! 
And  from  Fez  and  far  Morocco ; 

From  Yemen  and  Hejaz  : —     • 
For  round  the  world  to  the  Faithful 

This  fire  of  God  shall  blaze— 
And  from  the  realms  of  the  Indian  Sea, 

And  isles  of  spice  and  balm, 
Shall  a  thousand  thousand  hither  haste 

For  the  glory  of  Islam  ! 

And  as  in  the  valley  of  Bedr, 

When  the  Moslems  charged  the  foe, 
The  angels  stooped  to  the  stormy  pass 

And  laid  the  faithless  low — 
So  shall  they  watch  my  standard, 

And  all  along  our  line 
Will  hover  their  shining  legions, 

And  the  battle  be  divine  ! 


478  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  should  you  fall  in  the  conflict, 

O  glorious,  glad  surprise  ! 
White  winged  camels  will  bear  you  thence 

To  the  bowers  of  Paradise — 
Up  to  the  crystal  fountains, 

And  the  feast  of  the  Tuba  tree, 
The  songs  of  Israfil  to  hear, 

The  face  of  God  to  see  ! 

Allah  !  I  long  for  the  onset ! 

Moslems  !  welcome  the  day 
When  forth  in  the  rosy  dawn  we  sweep 

As  victors  to  the  f  i-ay  ! 
For  fierce  as  the  lion  leaping 

At  night  from  his  woody  lair ; 
Dread  as  the  hot  simoom  whose  breath 

No  living  thing  may  dare  ; 
Strong  as  the  sun  when  he  mounts  the  sky 

To  bathe  in  the  western  sea — 
So  tierce,  to  the  godless  of  the  earth, 

So  dread,  so  strong  are  we  ! 
And,  by  the  soul  of  Mohammed — 

Nay,  by  the  Throne  of  God — 
The  Infidel  and  the  Spoiler 

Shall  into  the  dust  be  trod  ! 
And  away  by  the  winds  of  heaven 

As  worthless  chaff  be  blown, 
And  the  Prophet,  and  true  Believers, 

Shall  rule  in  the  earth  alone ! 


THE  BROOKL  YN  BRIDGE. 

A  GRANITE  cliff  on  either  shore; 

A  highway  poised  in  air; 
Above,  the  wheels  of  traffic  roar ; 

Below,  the  fleets  sail  fair ; — 


EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR.  479 

And  in  and  out,  forevermore, 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  the  towers  the  white  gulls  soar, 
And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear. 

O  peerless  this  majestic  street, 

This  road  that  leaps  the  brine ! 
Upon  its  height  twin,  cities  meet, 

And  throng  its  grand  incline, — 
To  east,  to  west,  with  swiftest  feet, 
Though  ice  may  crash  and  billows  beat 
Though  blinding  fogs  the  wave  may  greet, 

Or  golden  summer  shine. 

Sail  up  the  Bay  with  morning's  beam, 

Or  rocky  Hellgate  by, — 
Its  columns  rise,  its  cables  gleam, 
•    Great  tents  athwart  the  sky  ! 
And  lone  it  looms,  august,  supreme, 
When,  with  the  splendour  of  a  dream, 
Its  blazing  cressets  gild  the  stream 

Till  evening  shadows  fly. 

By  Nile  stand  proud  the  pyramids, 

But  they  were  for  the  dead ; 
The  awful  gloom  that  joy  forbids, 

The  mourners'  silent  tread, 
The  crypt,  the  coffin's  stony  lids, — 
Sad  as  a  soul  the  maze  that  thrids 
Of  dark  Amenti,  ere  it  rids 

Its  way  of  judgment  dread. 

This  glorious  arch,  these  climbing  towers, 

Are  all  for  life  and  cheer  ! 
Part  of  the  new  world's  nobler  dowers; 

Hint  of  millennial  year 
That  comes  apace,  though  evil  lowers, — 
When  loftier  aims  and  larger  powers 
Will  mould  and  deck  this  earth  of  ours, 

And  heaven  at  length  bring  near ! 


480  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Unmoved  its  cliffs  shall  crown  the  shore  ; 

Its  arch  the  chasm  dare  ; 
Its  network  hang,  the  blue  before, 

As  gossamer  in  air  ; 
While  in  and  out,  for  evermore, 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  its  towers  the  white  gulls  soar 

And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear  ! 


HEROES. 

THE  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 

Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines, 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep  sea-floor, 

Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  on  every  isle 

Fair  in  the  foam  of  -ffigean  seas, 
But,  out  of  their  rest,  no  charm  can  wile 

Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more 

By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls  ; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  stained  with  gore, 

Shouts,  "  O  ye  Gods  !  'tis  Hector  falls  !  " 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 

But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow  away, 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  poppies  grow 

Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fought  that  day 

Mother  Earth  !     Are  the  heroes  dead  1 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 

All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  1 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought 

Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Or  to  teach  as  gray-haired  Nestor  taught  1 

Mother  Earth  !  are  the  Heroes  gone 


AM E LIE  RIVES.  481 

Gone?     In  a  grander  form  they  rise; 

Dead 't     We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours  ; 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal  flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 

'Tis  the  pulse  of  a  Hero's  heart  is  stirred  ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won 

There  are  the  Heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armour  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod; 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  gleam  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away; 
For  the  Heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 


AMELIE  RIVES. 

[Born  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  ?,3d  August  1863.  Author  of  Virginia 
of  Virginia,  The  Quick  or  the  Dead,  Herod  and  Mariamne,  etc. 
The  poems  given  are  by  special  permission.  The  "  Grief  and 
Faith"  sonnets  are  from  Harper's  Magazine;  the  other  sonnet 
from  The*Century.  The  sonnets  "  Grief  and  Faith  "  are  repub- 
lished  by  kind  permission  of  the  editor  of  Harper's  Magazine  ; 
the  other  sonnet  by  kind  permission  of  the  editor  of  The 
Century  Magazine.] 

GRIEF  AND  FAITH. 
i. 

FOLD  back  the  sun-bright  hair ;  kiss  the  meek  lids, 
That  lie  like  flowers  above  the  flower-blue  eyes ; 
Grieve  not,  to  grieve  her  with  thy  anguished  sighs ; 

Such  peace  as  Christ  hath  given  her  forbids 

Even  the  storm  of  woe  to  rage,  and  rids 

Fierce  Death  of  half  his  terrors.     In  such  wise 
Sleep  doth  appear  ere  Love  hath  said,  "  Arise  ! " 

Or  Love  lies  quiet  while  that  fair  Joy  bids. 
2a 


482  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Sweet  Soul,  praised  be  thy  God  that  I  am  left 
To  bear  this  anguish  in  thy  dear  heart's  stead ; 

That  thou  art  happy,  while  I  am  bereft ; 

That  I,  not  thou,  kneel  by  our  desolate  bed, 

And  know  Life's  sword  hath  stabbed  me  to  the  heft, 
Knowing  that  I  do  live,  while  thou  art  dead. 

II. 

Ah  me  !  thy  child !     How  can  I  love  thy  child, 

Which  hath  begun  its  life  by  taking  thine  ? 

And  yet  it  was  thine  own,  and  thine  is  mine ; 
Therefore  it  is  mine  too.     Oh  God  !  the  wild, 
Mad,  helpless  yearning  to  lay  down  this  mild, 

Pale,  winter  flower  among  the  flowers  that  shine 

Like  stars  about  thee,  while  Love,  grown  divine, 
Omnipotent,  unquestioned,  undefiled, 
Bids  Death  exchange,  and  let  thee  live  again  ! 

Nay,  I  want  not  thy  child ;  I  thirst  for  thee, 
As  thirst  the  summer  meadows  for  the  rain, 

As  longs  the  mainland  for  the  tarrying  sea, 
As  stricken  souls  do  yearn  for  bodily  pain. 

Oh,  God  in  heaven  !  must  such  anguish  be  1 

ill. 

Alas  !  alas  !  God  will  not  let  thee  hear, 

To  grieve  in  heaven  for  my  bitterness ; 

Nor  would  I  have  thee  listen,  to  confess 
God  loves  thee  more  than  I.     Ah,  have  no  fear ; 
My  sorrow  cannot  touch  thee.     I  am  here, 

And  thou  art  where  no  love  can  harm,  or  bless, 

Or  reach,  or  move  thee.     Let  me  keep  one  tress, 
To  rest  where  thy  head  rested  one  fair  year. 
It  is  not  much  to  ask  of  thee,  O  sweet, 

Who  hast  for  love  of  me'given  thy  bright  life. 
Such  kisses  as  had  made  thy  pure  heart  beat 

But  yesterday,  still  leave  thee  stone,  my  wife. 
Farewell,  dear  brow,  dear  mouth,  dear  hands,  dear  feet ! 

Thine  is  the  freedom  ;  mine,  the  fire,  the  knife, 


AMELIE  RIVES.  483 

IV. 

Yet  was  it  wonderful,  when  all  is  said, 

Heaven  should  desire  thee  1    Nay;  for  thou  wert  far 

Above  most  women  as  God's  handmaids  are; 
Thy  soul  as  flowers  that  bloom  when  day  is  fled; 
Thy  purity  as  crown  upon  thy  head ; 

In  all  things  lovely.     There  was  naught  to  mar 

The  jewel  of  thy  nature,  while  a  star 
Seemed  thy  sweet,  steadfast  love.     Now,  being  dead, 
Thou,  star-like,  love-like,  seekest  heaven,  while  I 

Seem  cast  from  heaven,  like  Satan,  into  hell. 
O  darling,  ask  thy  God  to  let  me  die — 

Thou  who  canst  plead  so  nobly  and  so  well. 
It  shall  be  borne,  so  rest  come  by-and-by. 

Thou  canst  not  answer  ?    Then,  once  more,  farewell ! 

v. 
Sweet  eyes,  farewell ;  cold  bosom,  fare  thee  well ; 

Farewell  all  joy,  all  love,  all  hope,  all  peace. 

Welcome,  fierce  pain,  till  Death  do  bid  ye  cease, 
Farewell,  content.     My  bride,  my  wife,  farewell. 
The  mother  of  my  child  !     Oh  hell  in  hell, 

For  which  High  God  Himself  hath  no  surcease, 

No  straws  of  comfort  such  as  gleaners  lease 
From  fields  already  harvested  !     This  knell 
Rings  ever  in  mine  ears  :   "  She  gave  her  life 

In  giving  thee  thy  child."     What  care  had  I, 
So  that  my  rose  bloomed  on,  if  that  Death's  knife 

Pruned  each  bud  as  it  blossomed  1     Is  to  die 
To  love  no  more,  O  exquisite,  pale  wife, 

Or  only  to  be  deaf  unto  Love's  cry  1 


A  SONNET. 

TAKE  all  of  me, — I  am  thine  own,  heart, — soul — 
Brain,  body — all ;  all  that  I  am  or  dream 
Is  thine  for  ever ;  yea  though  space  should  teem 
With  thy  conditions,  I'd  fulfil  the  whole — 
Were  to  fulfil  them  to  be  loved  of  thee. 
Oh  love  me — love  me,  so  to  die  would  be 


484  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

To  live  for  ever.     Let  me  hear  thee  say 
Once  only  "  Dear,  I  love  thee  " — then  all  life 
Would  be  one  sweet  remembrance, — thou  its  king : 
Nay  thou  art  that  already,  and  the  strife 
Of  twenty  worlds  could  not  uncrown  thee.     Bring, 
O  Time  !  my  monarch  to  possess  his  throne, 
Which  is  my  heart  and  for  himself  alone. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD. 

[Born  at  Calais,  Maine,  3d  April  1835.  Author  of  Sir  Rohan's  Ghost 
(Boston,  1859) ;  The  Amber  Gods,  and  other  Stories  (Boston, 
1863;  Azarian  (1864);  New  England  Legends  (1871);  The 
Thief  in  the  Night  (1872);  and  Ballads  about  Authors  (1888), 
etc.  The  poems  quoted  are  given  by  kind  permission  of  the 
D.  Lothrop  Company, for  "Goldsmith's  Whistle,"  and  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  for  the  other  poems.] 

MAGDALEN. 

IF  any  woman  of  us  all, 

If  any  woman  of  the  street, 
Before  the  Lord  should  pause  and  fall, 

And  with  her  long  hair  wipe  His  feet — 

He  whom  with  yearning  hearts  we  love, 
And  fain  would  see  with  human  eyes 

Around  our  living  pathway  move, 
And  underneath  our  daily  skies — 

The  Maker  of  the  heavens  and  earth, 
The  Lord  of  life,  the  Lord  of  death, 

In  whom  the  universe  had  birth, 

But  breathing  of  our  breath  one  breath — 

If  any  woman  of  the  street 

Should  kneel,  and  with  the  lifted  met-h 
Of  her  long  tresses  wipe  His  feet, 

And  with  her  kisses  kiss  His  flesh — 

How  round  that  woman  would  we  throng, 
How  willingly  would  clasp  her  hands 

Fresh  from  that  touch  divine,  and  long 
To  gather  up  the  twice  blest  strands  ! 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  485 

How  eagerly  with  her  would  change 

Our  idle  innocence,  nor  heed 
Her  shameful  memories  and  strange, 

Could  we  but  also  claim  that  deed  ! 


AGATHA'S  SONG. 

SOONER  or  later,  the  storms  shall  beat 
Over  my  slumber  from  head  to  feet ; 
Sooner  or  later,  the  winds  shall  wave 
On  the  long  grass  above  my  grave. 

I  shall  not  heed  them  where  I  lie, 
Nothing  their  sound  shall  signify; 
Nothing  the  headstone's  fret  of  rain, 
Nothing  to  me  the  dark  day's  pain. 

Sooner  or  later,  the  sun  shall  shine 

With  tender  warmth  on  that  mound  of  mine  ; 

Sooner  or  later,  in  summer  air, 

Clover  and  violet  blossom  there. 

I  shall  not  feel  in  that  deep-laid  rest 

The  sheeted  light  fall  over  my  breast, 

Nor  ever  note  in  those  hidden  hours 

The  wind-blown  breath  of  the  tossing  flowers. 

Sooner  or  later,  the  stainless  snows 
Shall  add  their  hush  to  my  mute  repose ; 
Sooner  or  later,  shall  slant  and  shift, 
And  heap  my  bed  with  their  dazzling  drift. 

Chill  though  that  frozen  fall  shall  seem, 
Its  touch  no  colder  can  make  the  dream 
That  recks  not  the  sweet  and  sacred  dread 
Shrouding  the  city  of  the  dead. 

Sooner  or  later,  the  bee  shall  come 
And  fill  the  noon  with  his  golden  hum; 
Sooner  or  later,  on  half-poised  wing, 
The  bluebird's  warble  about  me  ring,  — 


486  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Ring  and  chirrup  and  whistle  with  glee, 
Nothing  his  music  means  to  me ; 
None  of  these  beautiful  things  shall  know 
How  soundly  their  lover  sleeps  below. 

Sooner  or  later,  far  out  in  the  night, 
The  stars  shall  over  me  wing  their  flight ; 
Sooner  or  later,  the  answering  dews 
Catch  the  white  spark  in  their  silent  ooze. 

Never  a  ray  shall  part  the  gloom 
That  wraps  me  round  in  the  kindly  tomb ; 
Peace  shall  be  perfect  for  lip  and  brow 
Sooner  or  later, — but,  oh,  not  now  ! 


THE  LONEL  Y  GRA  VE. 

BLOOD-RED  the  roses  blossom  in  the  dell, 
The  bosky  place  where  once  the  battle  fell ; 
Tall  have  the  grasses  grown  since  then,  and  rank 
The  ferns,  fed  with  the  ghastly  dew  they  drank. 
O  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  these  roses  of  the  South; 
Sweet  these  rain-lilies  blowing  after  drouth ; 
Sweet  the  wild  grape,  whose  bunches  everywhere 
Fling  spice  upon  the  lonesome  summer  air ; 
Sweet  the  great  orange  boughs  and  jasmine  flowers 
In  dawn  and  dusk  through  all  the  visiting  hours 
That  troop  across  the  hidden  grave's  low  swell 
Where  the  palmetto  stands,  a  sentinel ! 

A  lonely  grave, — none  care  for  it,  none  know 
His  name  who  all  these  seasons  sleeps  below. 
Only  the  heedless  hunter  pauses  there 
To  sight  some  wing  that  quivers  in  the  air, 
Nor  feels  the  presence  of  an  ancient  pain 
That  yearns  about  the  unknown  spot  in  vain. 
Only  the  noonday  sunshine  comes  ;  the  rain  ; 
The  golden  moons  above  it  wax  and  wane ; 
The  wild  deer  crouch  beside  it,  and  the  snake 
Glitters  and  slips  along  beneath  the  brake ; 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  487 

While,  from  the  dagger-tree  the  bubbling  song 
Of  mocking-birds  makes  music  all  night  long. 

But  far  on  northern  hills  a  woman  grows 

The  sadder  with  each  gust  the  south  wind  blows ; 

A  mother  listens,  and  with  eager  ears 

The  step  long  hushed  in  every  footfall  hears ; 

And  friends,  flower  laden,  in  a  martial  rout 

Among  the  fortunate  graves  go  in  and  out. 

Ah,  if  to-day  one  violet  fell  here, 

One  bluebell  dropped  its  heaven-holding  tear, 

One  homely  door-stone  blossom  shed  its  breath, 

Less  desolate  with  the  despair  of  death, 

For  all  the  song,  the  splendid  glow  and  gleam, 

This  lush-leaved  covert  of  the  dead  would  seem  ! 

Yet,  on  this  sole  day  of  the  waiting  year, 

Since  love  with  its  dear  tribute  comes  not  near, 

Its  shadow  steals  through  the  green  under-gloom 

To  scatter  armfuls  of  pale  myrtle  bloom, — 

A  dark  shape,  crooning  o'er  the  lonely  grave, 

The  wildly-tuned  thank-offering  of  the  slave. 

For  here,  where  strange  boughs  move  and  strange  wings 

whirr, 

He  rests  upon  his  arms  who  died  for  her. 
Brighter  the  tide  that  wet  the  soil  returns, 
And  in  the  blaze  of  the  pomegranate  burns  ; 
Loftier  the  heavens  climb  from  that  low  grave, 
Tenderer  the  air  to  which  his  breath  he  gave. 
Because  he  died,  her  children  are  her  own ; 
Her  soul,  she  cries,  to  a  white  soul  has  grown ; 
Because  he  sleeps  beneath  an  alien  sod 
Her  race  in  fuller  sunlight  answers  God. 
Oh  sweet  the  bosky  dell  in  sun  and  shower, 
Sweet  the  low  wind  that  creeps  from  flower  to  flower  ! 
Oh  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  these  roses  of  the  South, 
The  breath  of  the  rain-lilies'  honeyed  mouth  ; 
Sweet  the  bird's  song  across  the  lonely  grave, 
But  sweeter  still  the  blessings  of  the  slave  ! 


488  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 


OAK  HILL. 

THERE  are  roses  of  passionate  perfume 
In  the  gardens  under  the  hill, 

Red-lipped  and  rich  with  the  honey 
That  the  brown  bee  sips  at  will. 

Lightly  their  breath  is  blowing 
Wherever  the  west  wind  flies, 

A  part  of  the  breathing  rapture 
Of  laughter  and  kisses  and  sighs. 

But  here,  where  the  silence  is  perfect 

As  in  undiscovered  lands, 
The  lilies  are  crowding  like  sainted  souls 

With  their  gold  harps  in  their  hands. 

And  I  think  if  the  Lord,  at  cool  of  day, 
Should  again  with  his  servants  tread, 

It  is  here  that  his  feet  would  linger, — 
In  this  Garden  of  the  Dead  ! 


AN  OLD  SONG. 

AN  old  song,  an  old  song !     But  the  new  are  not  so 

sweet, — 
Sweet  though  they  be  with  honeyed  words,  and  sweet 

with  fancies  fair, 
With  thrills  of  tune  in  silver  troop  of  answering  echoes 

fleet, 
With'  tender  longings  slumberous  upon  enchanted  air. 

An  old  song !     But  across  its  verse  what  viewless  voices 

sing  ! 

Through  all  its  simple  burden  what  human  pulses  stir  ! 
More  intimate  witli   grief  and  joy  than   any  precious 

thing 
That  the  years  have  wrapped  away  in  frankincense  and 

myrrh. 


HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD.  489 

Lovers  have  sung  it,  summer  nights,  when  earth  itself 

seemed  heaven ; 

Sailors  far  off  on  lonely  seas  have  given  it  to  the  gale ; 
Mothers  have  hushed  its  measure  on  the  quiet  edge  of 

even, 
While  soft  as  falling  rose  leaves  dear  eyelids  dropped 

their  veil. 

Long  since  the  sailor  made  his  grave  between  two  rolling 

waves, 
The  lovers  and  their  love  are  naught,  mother  and  child 

are  dust ; 
But  to-night  some  maiden  lilts  it,  to-night  its  sounding 

staves 
Are   blowing    from    the   stroller's   lips    on   this    balmy 

blossom-gust. 

A  part  of  life,  its  music  flows  as  the  blood  flows  in  the 

vein ; 
Laughter    ripples    through    it,    tears   make   its    charm 

complete; 
For  the  heart  of  all  the  ages  beats  still  through  this  old 

strain, 
An  old  song,  an  old  song,  but  the  new  are  not  so  sweet ! 


GOLDSMITH'S  WHJSTLE. 

A  LIGHT  heart  had  the  Irish  lad, 

As  light  as  any  in  the  land, 
And  surely  that  was  all  he  had, 

Save  the  King's  English,  at  command  ! 
Nay,  Greek  had  he,  a  goodly  store, 

Though  not  a  penny  came  to  mock  it ; 
Well,  well,  and  he  had  something  more — 

He  had  a  whistle  in  his  pocket ! 

Ay,  Greek  he  had,  pure  root  and  stem; 

And  that  great  parlance  never  rang 
Round  gownsmen  at  Louvain, — for  them 

Nor  Plato  spoke  nor  Homer  sang. 


490  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

And  he  had  dreamed  of  classes  there, 
And  he  had  crossed  the  deep  seas  over, 

Determined  in  a  scholar's  chair 
With  cap  and  gown  to  live  in  clover. 

But  dean  nor  don  of  that  famed  school 

Cared  for  the  lore  the  stranger  brought, 
Greek  was  not  in  their  time-worn  rule, 

And  all  his  silver  speech  was  naught. 
Strange  land,  strange  ways,  strange  faces,  too  ; 

A  land  that  flowed  with  milk  and  honey — 
And  no  word  of  their  tongue  he  knew, 

And  had  no  stiver  of  their  money. 

He  supped  that  night  beside  the  brook, 

That  night  he  slept  beneath  the  hedge ; 
Dark  was  the  great  sky's  dreary  look, 

Hope  gave  no  promise,  fate  no  pledge. 
And  when  the  morning  came,  despair 

Hung  over  him,  and  hunger  gnawed  him — 
He  was  so  young,  and  life  so  fair, 

And  death  confronted  him,  and  awed  him. 

And  then — he  was  an  Irish  lad — • 

The  April  in  him  had  its  way; 
Sun  shining,  should  not  one  be  glad  ? 

Birds  singing,  one  not  match  their  play? 
Soft  blew  the  breeze  his  tears  to  wipe, 

And  there,  upon  the  grassy  hummock, 
He  laughed  at  care,  and  took  his  pipe, 

And  played  a  tune  to  stay  his  stomach. 

He  played,  nor  knew  of  any  nigh, 

Lost  for  the  hour  in  sweet  employ, 
Till  through  his  dream  there  stole  a  cry, 

A  little  chirping  note  of  joy ; 
And  beating  time  there,  every  one, 

With  lips  that  laughed  and  eyes  that  glistened, 
Like  roses  burning  in  the  sun, 

Some  happy  children  sat  and  listened. 


HARRIET  P  RE  SCOTT  SPOFFORD.  491 

And  scarce  less  innocent  than  they 

He  gave  a  nod  of  merry  cheer, 
Blew  out  his  cheeks  with  fresher  play, 

And  blew  the  strain  out  loud  and  clear. 
Clear  as  the  whistling  nightingale 

He  blew  the  tuneful  moment's  fancies, 
Sweet  airs  of  ancient  Innisfail, 

Or  graveside  keene,  or  fleet-foot  dances. 

And  when  he  ceased  and  fani  would  leave 

The  spot,  with  slower  step  and  slower, 
One  caught  his  hand,  and  one  his  sleeve, 

And  led  him  to  their  mother's  door. 
They  brought  him  honey,  brought  him  bread, 

They  swarmed  about,  a  pretty  rabble, 
And  still  he  heard,  when  farther  sped, 

The  music  of  their  unknown  babble. 

And  going  on  he  knew  not  where, 

Feet  somewhat  sore,  eyes  somewhat  dim, 
A  shadow  fell  upon  the  air, 

And  suddenly  one  went  with  him — 
The  shadow  o£  remembered  song, 

The  memory  of  a  mighty  singing, 
That  made  the  way,  late  hard  and  long, 

Light  with  the  music  round  it  ringing ; 

Carolan's  singing,  long  removed, 

The  last  of  the  great  bards  who  blew 
Life  through  old  ballads,  whom  men  loved, 

By  the  same  token,  whom  kings  slew. 
Still  could  our  wanderer  see  again 

The  streaming  beard,  the  tattered  camlet, 
The  shouldered  harp  whose  throbbing  strain 

Brought  greeting  glad  in  hall  and  hamlet. 

Not  as  perchance  in  elder  days, 

When  daised  ladies  bent  to  hear, 
And  the  torch  shed  its  fitful  blaze 

On  bull-hide  shield  and  restless  spear, 


492  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

While  some  old  minstrel,  gaunt  and  hoar, 

With  "Dathi's  Doom  "  made  broadswords  rattle, 

And  the  wild  song  of  "  Argan  Mor  " 

Stirred  all  their  hearts  to  sudden  battle  ; 

But  as  beside  some  cabin  door 

The  harp  was  strung  to  gentler  tune, 
And  hushed  the  babe  the  mother  bore, 

And  hushed  the  grandam's  hapless  croon. 
While  "  Usna's  Children  "  called  the  tear, 

And  lovers,  moved  with  tender  feeling, 
Felt  all  their  pulses  bound  to  hear 

"Cnshla-ma-chree"  and  soft  "Lough  Sheeling." 

What  music  blown  on  every  gale 

Old  Carolan  was  playing  then  ! 
What  hero's  chant,  what  banshee's  wail, 

Our  happy  wanderer  heard  again  ! 
The  Desmond's  love  he  heard  once  more 

Sweet  Catharine  MacCormac  gracing, 
And  saw  upon  Killarney's  shore 

O'Donohue's  White  Horses  racing. 

Far  off  the  windy  music  crept 

To  silence  ;  and  the  startled  youth 
Laughed  at  the  sudden  thought  that  leapt — 

He  was  a  minstrel,  too,  forsooth  ! 
Like  Carolan,  he  also  went 

To  no  one  but  his  pipe  a  debtor, 
The  earth  his  bed,  the  sky  his  tent— 

A  minstrel  he,  for  want  of  better  ! 

From  village  green  to  green  his  way 

He,  too,  should  pay  with  pleasant  tunes, 
While  quiet  folk,  at  close  of  day, 

Broke  bread,  or  in  the  idle  noons. 
He,  where  he  saw  two  lovers  lean, 

Could  slyly  play  a  "  Mina-meala," 
And  should  a  loiterer  mischief  mean 

Could  give  the  rousing  "  Fague  a  ballagh  !  " 


HARRIET  P RE  SCOTT  SP  OF  FORD.  493 

And  many  a  jolly  catch  complete 

Ballymahon  should  lend  him  then ; 
The  "  Groves  of  Blarney,"  heavenly  sweet 

And  sad,  should  melt  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
Unwritten  song  his  thoughts  o'erran, 

From  misty  time,  with  stirring  story, 
Here  came  the  "  Humming  of  the  Ban," 

And  here  came  "  Garry  one  in  Glory  !  " 

What  bliss,  what  power,  the  soul  to  lead, 

The  tear,  the  smile,  a  hurrying  slave  ! 
Oh,  Music,  with  your  rudest  reed, 

This  one  to  life  and  hope  you  gave  ! 
No  more  the  shady  hedge  and  copse ; 

The  lad  forsook  the  sheltering  byway, 
Took  out  his  whistle,  tried  its  stops, 

And  bravely  trudged  along  the  highway. 

As  fabled  beasts  before  the  lyre 

Fell  prone,  so  want  and  hunger  fled ; 
The  way  was  free  to  his  desire, 

And  he  like  one  with  manna  fed. 
The  world,  the  world,  for  him  was  meant, 

Cathedral  towers,  and  Alpine  torrents! 
He  trod  a  measure  as  he  went, 

And  piped  and  sang  his  way  to  Florence  ! 

Great  wit  and  scholar  though  he  be, 

I  love,  of  all  his  famous  days, 
This  time  of  simple  vagrancy 

Ere  youth  and  bliss  had  parted  ways. 
With  what  a  careless  heart  he  strayed. 

Light  as  the  down  upon  a  thistle, 
Made  other  hearts  his  own,  and  paid 

His  way  through  Europe  with  a  whistle! 


494  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

CELTA  THAXTER. 

[Born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  29th  June  1836.  Author  of 
Among  the  Isles  of  Shoals  (Boston,  1873)  ;  Poems  (1871)  ;  Drift 
Weed  (1878) ;  Poems  for  Children  (1884)  ;  The  Cruise  of  the 
Mystery,  and  other  Poems  (1886),  etc.  The  poems  given  are 
quoted  by  kind  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.] 

THE  ONL  Y  FOE. 

WILD,  threatening  sky,  white,  raging  sea, 
Fierce  wind  that  rends  the  rifted  cloud, 

Sets  the  new  moon's  sharp  glitter  free, 
And  thunders  eastward,  roaring  loud  ! 

A  fury  rides  the  autumn  blast, 

The  hoary  brine  is  torn  and  tossed ; 

Great  Nature  through  her  spaces  vast 
Casts  her  keen  javelins  of  the  frost. 

Her  hand  that  in  the  summer  days 
Soothed  us  with  tender  touch  of  joy, 

Deals  death  upon  her  wintry  ways ; 
Whom  she  caressed  she  would  destroy. 

Life  shrinks  and  hides ;  all  creatures  cower 
While  her  tremendous  bolts  are  hurled, 

That  strike  with  blind,  insensate  power 
The  mighty  shoulder  of  the  world. 

Be  still,  my  soul,  thou  hast  no  part 
In  her  black  moods  of  hate  and  fear ; 

Lifted  above  her  wrath  thou  art, 

On  thy  still  heights,  serene  and  clear. 

Remember  this, — not  all  the  wild, 
Huge,  untamed  elements  have  force 

To  reach  thee,  though  the  seas  were  piled 
In  weltering  mountains  on  thy  course. 

Only  thyself  thyself  can  harm. 

Forget  it  not !     And  full  of  peace, 
As  if  the  south  wind  whispered  warm, 

Wait  thou  till  storm  and  tumult  cease. 


CELIA   THAXTER.  495 

SONG. 

WE  sail  toward  evening's  lonely  star 

That  trembles  in  the  tender  blue  ; 
One  single  cloud,  a  dusky  bar, 

Burnt  with  dull  carmine  through  and  through, 
Slow  smouldering  in  the  summer  sky, 

Lies  low  along  the  fading  west. 
How  sweet  to  watch  its  splendours  die, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed  ! 

The  soft  breeze  freshens,  leaps  the  spray 

To  kiss  our  cheeks  with  sudden  cheer ; 
Upon  the  dark  edge  of  the  bay 

Lighthouses  kindle,  far  and  near, 
And  through  the  warm  deeps  of  the  sky 

Steal  faint  star-clusters,  while  we  rest 
Tn  deep  refreshment,  thou  and  I, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed. 

How  like  a  dream  are  earth  and  heaven, 

Starbeam  and  darkness,  sky  and  sea  ; 
Thy  face,  pale  in  the  shadowy  even, 

Thy  quiet  eyes  that  gaze  on  me  ! 
O  realise  the  moment's  charm, 

Thou  dearest !  we  are  at  life's  best, 
Folded  in  God's  encircling  arm, 

Wave-cradled  thus  and  wind-caressed. 


A    TRYST. 

FROM  out  the  desolation  of  the  North 

An  iceberg  took  its  way, 
From  its  detaining  comrades  breaking  forth, 

And  travelling  night  and  day. 

At  whose  command  ?     Who  bade  it  sail  the  deep 
With  that  resistless  force  1 


496  YO UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

Who  made  the  dread  appointment  it  must  keep  ? 
Who  traced  its  awful  course  ? 

To  the  warm  airs  that  stir  in  the  sweet  South 

A  good  ship  spreads  her  sails ; 
Stately  she  passed  beyond  the  harbour's  mouth 

Chased  by  the  favouring  gales ; 

And  on  her  ample  decks  a  happy  crowd 

Bade  the  fair  land  good-bye ; 
Clear  shone  the  day,  with  not  a  single  cloud 

In  all  the  peaceful  sky. 

Brave  men,  sweet  women,  little  children  bright, 

For  all  these  she  made  room, 
And  with  her  freight  of  beauty  and  delight 

She  went  to  meet  her  doom. 

Storms  buffeted  the  iceberg,  spray  was  swept 

Across  its  loftiest  height ; 
Guided  alike  by  storm  and  calm,  it  kept 

Its  fatal  path  aright. 

Then  warmer  waves  gnawed  at  its  crumbling  base 

As  if  in  piteous  plea ; 
The  ardent  sun  sent  slow  tears  down  its  face, 

Soft  flowing  to  the  sea. 

Dawn  kissed  it  with  her  tender  rose  tints,  Eve 

Bathed  it  in  violet, 
The  wistful  colour  o'er  it  seemed  to  grieve 

With  a  divine  regret. 

Whether  Day  clad  its  clefts  in  rainbows  dim 

And  shadowy  as  a  dream, 
Or  Night  through  lonely  spaces  saw  it  swim 

White  in  the  moonlight's  gleam, 

Ever  Death  rode  upon  its  solemn  heights, 

Ever  his  watch  he  kept ; 
Cold  at  its  heart  through  changing  days  and  nights 

Its  changeless  purpose  slept. 


CELIA   THAXTER.  497 

And  where  afar  a  smiling  coast  it  passed, 

Straightway  the  air  grew  chill ; 
Dwellers  thereon  perceived  a  bitter  blast, 

A  vague  report  of  ill. 

Like  some  imperial  creature  moving  slow, 

Meanwhile,  with  matchless  grace, 
The  stately  ship  unconscious  of  her  foe, 

Drew  near  the  trysting  place. 

For  still  the  prosperous  breezes  followed  her, 

And  half  the  voyage  was  o'er, 
In  many  a  breast  glad  thoughts  began  to  stir 

Of  lands  that  lay  before. 

And  human  hearts  with  longing  love  were  dumb, 

Tha.t  soon  should  cease  to  beat, 
Thrilled  with  the  hope  of  meetings  soon  to  come, 

And  lost  in  memories  sweet. 

Was  not  the  weltering  waste  of  water  wide 

Enough  for  both  to  sail  ? 
What  drew  the  two  together  o'er  the  tide, 

Fair  ship  and  iceberg  pale  ? 

There  came  a  night  with  neither  moon  nor  star, 

Clouds  draped  the  sky  in  black ; 
With  fluttering  canvas  reefed  at  every  spar, 

And  weird  fire  in  her  track, 

The  ship  swept  on ;  a  wild  wind  gathering  fast 

Drove  her  at  utmost  speed. 
Bravely  she  bent  before  the  fitful  blast 

That  shook  her  like  a  reed. 

O  helmsman,  turn  thy  wheel.     Will  no  surmise 

Cleave  through  the  midnight  drear, 
No  warning  of  the  horrible  surprise 

Reach  thine  unconscious  ear? 
2  I 


498  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

She  rushed  upon  her  ruin.     Not  a  flash 

Broke  up  the  waiting  dark; 
Dully  through  wind  and  sea  one  awful  crash 

Sounded,  with  none  to  mark. 

Scarcely  her  crew  had  time  to  clutch  despair, 

So  swift  the  work  was  done; 
Ere  their  pale  lips  could  frame  a  speechless  prayer, 

They  perished,  every  one! 


SLUMBER  SONG. 

THOU  little  child,  with  tender,  clinging  arms, 

Drop  thy  sweet  head,  my  darling,  down  and  rest 

Upon  my  shoulder,  rest  with  all  thy  charms; 
Be  soothed  and  comforted,  be  loved  and  blessed. 

Against  thy  silken,  honey-coloured  hair 
I  lean  a  loving  cheek,  a  mute  caress ; 

Close,  close  I  gather  thee  and  kiss  thy  fail- 
White  eyelids,  sleep  so  softly  doth  oppress. 

Dear  little  face  that  lies  in  calm  content 
Within  the  gracious  hollow  that  God  made 

In  every  human  shoulder,  where  He  meant 
Some  tired  head  for  comfort  should  be  laid  ! 

Most  like  a  heavy-folded  rose  thou  art, 
In  summer  air  reposing,  warm  and  still. 

Dream  thy  sweet  dreams  upon  my  quiet  heart ; 
I  watch  thy  slumber ;  naught  shall  do  thee  ill. 


SCHUMANN'S  SONATA  IN  A  MINOR. 

THE  quiet  room,  the  flowers,  the  perfumed  calm, 
The  slender  crystal  vase,  where  all  aflame ; 

The  scarlet  poppies  stand  erect  and  tall, 

Colour  that  burns  as  if  no  frost  could  tame, 

The  shaded  lamplight  glowing  over  all, 

The  summer  night  a  dream  of  warmth  and  balm. 


CELIA   THAXTER.  499 

Out  breaks  at  once  the  golden  melody, 

"  With  passionate  expression  !  "     Ah,  from  whence 
Comes  the  enchantment  of  this  potent  spell, 

This  charm  that  takes  us  captive,  soul  and  sense  1 
The  sacred  power  of  music,  who  shall  tell, 

Who  find  the  secret  of  its  mastery  ? 

Lo,  in  the  keen  vibration  of  the  air, 
Pierced  by  the  sweetness  of  the  violin, 

Shaken  by  thrilling  chords  and  searching  notes 
That  flood  the  ivory  keys,  the  flowers  begin 

To  tremble;  :tis  as  if  some  spirit  floats 
And  breathes  upon  their  beauty  unaware. 

The  stately  poppies,  proud  in  stillness,  stand 

In  silken  splendour  of  superb  attire: 
Stricken,  with  arrows  of  melodious  sound, 

Their  loosened  petals  fall  like  flakes  of  fire; 
With  waves  of  music  overwhelmed  and  drowned, 

Solemnly  drop  their  flames  on  either  hand. 

So  the  rich  moment  dies,  and  what  is  left  1 
Only  a  memory  sweet,  to  shut  between 

Some  poem's  silent  leaves,  to  find  again, 

Perhaps  when  winter  blasts  are  howling  keen, 

And  summer's  loveliness  is  spoiled  and  slain, 
And  all  the  world  of  light  and  bloom  bereft. 

But  winter  cannot  rob  the  music  so ! 

Nor  time  nor  fate  its  subtle  power  destroy 
To  bring  again  the  summer's  dear  caress, 

To  wake  the  heart  to  youth's  unreasoning  joy, — 
Sound,  colour,  perfume,  love,  to  warm  and  bless, 

And  airs  of  balm  from  Paradise  that  blow. 


$oo  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS. 

[Born  at  Chatham,  Ohio,  12th  August  1854.  Author  of  A  New 
Year's  Masque,  and  other  Poems  (Boston,  1885) ;  The  Round 
Year  (1886);  and  Lyrics  and  Sonnets  (1887).  The  poems 
given  are  quoted  with  the  kind  permission  of  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.] 

THE  QUIET  PILGRIM. 

"  What  shatt  I  say  ?  He  hath  both  spoken  unto  me,  and  Himself 
hath  done  it :  I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years  in  the  bitterness  of  my 
soul." — ISAIAH  xxxvm.  15. 

WHEN  on  my  soul  in.  nakedness 
His  swift  avertless  hand  did  press, 
Then  I  stood  still,  nor  cried  aloud, 
Nor  murmured  low  in  ashes  bowed; 
And,  since  my  woe  is  utterless, 
To  supreme  quiet  I  am  vowed; 
Afar  from  me  be  moan  and  tears, — 
I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years. 

Whenso  my  quick  light-sandalled  feet 
Bring  me  where  Joys  and  Pleasures  meet, 
I  mingle  with  their  throng  at  will; 
They  know  me  not  an  alien  still, 
Since  neither  words  nor  ways  unsweet 
Of  stored  bitterness  I  spill; 
Youth  shuns  me  not,  nor  gladness  fears, — 
I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years. 

Whenso  I  come  where  Griefs  convene, 
And  in  my  ear  their  cry  is  keen, 
They  know  me  not,  as  on  I  glide, 
That  with  Arch  Sorrow  I  abide. 
They  haggard  are,  and  drooped  of  mien, 
And  round  their  brows  have  cypress  tied; 
Such  shows  I  leave  to  light  Grief's  peers, — 
I  shall  go  softly  all  my  years. 

Yea,  softly  !  heart  of  hearts  unknown. 
Silence  hath  speech  that  passeth  moan, 


EDITH  MATILDA   THOMAS.  501 

More  piercing-keen  than  breathed  cries 
To  such  as  heed,  made  sorrow- wise. 
But  save  this  voice  without  a  tone, 
That  runs  before  me  to  the  skies, 
And  rings  above  thy  ringing  spheres, 
Lord,  I  go  softly  all  my  years. 


EXILES. 
THEY  both  are  exiles;  he  who  sailed 

Great  circles  of  the  day  and  night, 
Until  the  vapoury  bank  unveiled 

A  land  of  palm  trees  fair  to  sight. 

They  both  are  exiles ;  she  who  still 
Seems  to  herself  to  watch,  ashore, 

The  wind  too  fain  his  canvas  fill, 
The  sunset  burning  close  before. 

He  has  no  sight  of  Saxon  face, 

He  hears  a  language  harsh  and  strange; 
She  has  not  left  her  native  place, 

Yet  all  has  undergone  a  change. 

They  both  are  exiles ;  nor  have  they 
The  same  stars  shining  in  their  skies; 

His  nightfall  is  her  dawn  of  day, 

His  day  springs  westward  from  her  eyes. 

Each  says  apart,  There  is  no  land 

So  far,  so  vastly  desolate, 
But  had  we  sought  it  hand  in  hand, 

We  both  had  blessed  the  driving  fate. 


FROST. 

How  small  a  tooth  hath  mined  the  season's  heart ! 
How  cold  a  touch  hath  set  the  wood  on  fire, 
Until  it  blazes  like  a  costly  pyre 
Built  for  some  Ganges  emperor  old  and  swart, 


502  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

Soul-sped  on  clouds  of  incense  !     Whose  the  art 

That  webs  the  streams  each  morn  with  silver  wire, 

Delicate  as  the  tension  of  a  lyre  1 

Whose  falchion  pries  the  chestnut  burr  apart  ? 

It  is  the  Frost,  a  rude  and  Gothic  sprite, 

Who  doth  unbuild  the  summer's  palaced  wealth, 

And  puts  her  dear  loves  all  to  sword  or  flight; 

Yet  in  the  hushed,  unmindful  winter  night 

The  spoiler  builds  again,  with  jealous  stealth, 

And  sets  a  mimic  garden  cold  and  bright. 


MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND. 

[Born  in  Lyons,  N.Y.,  about  1836.  Author  of  The  Brother 
Clerks,  a  Novel  (1858,  Derby  and  Jackson,  N.Y.) ;  Xari/a's 
Poems  (1881,  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.)  ;  and  Down  the  Bayou 
(1882,  Ticknor  &  Co.,  now  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston). 
The  poems  given  are  with  the  kind  permission  of  these  firms — 
the  shorter  poem  being  from  the  earlier  volume.  Mrs  Town- 
send  has  now  another  volume  of  verse  ready  for  the  press.] 

DO  WN  THE  BA  YOU. 

WE  drifted  down  the  long  lagoon, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Far  out  of  sight  of  all  the  town, 
The  old  Cathedral  sinking  down, 
With  spire  and  cross,  from  view  below 
The  borders  of  St  John's  bayou, 
As  toward  the  ancient  Spanish  Fort, 
With  steady  prow  and  helm  a  port, 
We  drifted  down,  my  Love  and  I, 
Beneath  an  azure  April  sky, 
My  Love  and  I,  my  Love  and  I, 
Just  at  the  hour  of  noon. 

.    We  drifted  down,  and  drifted  down, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
Beyond  the  Creole  part  of  town, 
Its  red-tiled  roofs,  its  stucco  walls, 
Its  belfries  with  their  sweet  bell-calls, 


MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND.  503 

The  Bishop's  Palace,  which  enshrines 

Such  memories  of  the  Ursulines  ; 

Past  balconies  where  maidens  dreamed 

Behind  the  shelter  of  cool  vines ; 

Past  open  doors  where  parrots  screamed ; 

Past  courts  where  mingled  shade  and  glare 

Fell  through  pomegranate  boughs,  to  where 

The  turbaned  negress,  drowsy  grown, 

Sat  nodding  in  her  ample  chair  : 

Beyond  the  joyance  and  the  stress, 

Beyond  the  greater  and  the  less, 

Beyond  the  tiresome  noonday  town, 

The  parish  prison's  cupolas, 

The  bridges,  with  their  creaking  draws, 

And  many  a  convent's  frown, — 

We  drifted  on,  my  Love  and  I, 

Beneath  the  semi-tropic  sky, 

While  from  the  clock-towers  in  the  town 

Spake  the  meridian  bells  that  said, — 

'Twas  morn — 'tis  noon — 

Time  flies — and  soon 

Night  follows  noon. 
Prepare  !     Beware ! 

Take  care  !     Take  care  ! 

For  soon — so  soon: — 
Night  follows  noon, — 
Dark  night  the  noon, — 
Noon  !  noon  !  noon  !  noon  ! 

To  right,  to  left,  the  tiller  turned, 
In  all  its  gaud,  our  painted  prow. 
Bend  after  bend  our  light  keel  spurned, 
For  sinuously  the  bayou's  low 
Dark  waters  'neath  the  sunshine  burned, 
There  in  that  smiling  southern  noon, 
As  if  some  giant  serpent  wound 
Along  the  lush  and  mellow  ground 
To  mark  the  path  we  chose  to  go ; 
When,  in  sweet  hours  remembered  now, 


504  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

The  long  lagoon  we  drifted  down ; 

My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 

Far  out  of  reach  of  all  the  town, 

Beyond  the  Ridge  of  Metairie, 

And  all  its  marble  villages 

Thronged  with  their  host  of  Deaf  and  Dumb, 

Who  to  the  feet  of  Death  have  come 

And  laid  their  earthly  burdens  down  ! 

We  drifted  slow,  we  drifted  fast, 

Bulrush  and  reed  and  blossom  past, 

My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I. 

As  the  chameleon  pillages 

Its  tint  from  turf,  or  leaf,  or  stone, 

Or  flower  it  haps  to  rest  upon, 

So  did  our  hearts,  that  joyous  day, 

From  every  beauty  in  our  way 

Some  new  fresh  tinge  of  beauty  take, 

Some  added  gladness  make  our  own 

From  things  familiar  yet  unknown. 


With  scarce  the  lifting  of  an  oar, 

We  lightly  swept  from  shore  to  shore, — 

The  hither  and  the  thither  shore, 

With  scarce  the  lifting  of  an  oar, — 

While  far  beyond,  in  distance  wrapped, 

The  city's  lines  lay  faintly  mapped, — 

Its  antique  courts,  its  levee's  throngs, 

Its  rattling  floats,  its  boatmen's  songs, 

Its  lowly  and  its  lofty  roofs, 

Its  tramp  of  men,  its  beat  of  hoofs, 

Its  scenes  of  peace,  its  brief  alarms, 

Its  narrow  streets,  its  old  Place  d'Armes, 

Whose  tragic  soil  of  long  ago 

Now  sees  the  modern  roses  blow  : 

All  these  in  one  vast  cloud  were  wound, 

Of  blurred  and  fainting  sight  and  sound, 

As  on  we  swept,  my  Love  and  I, 

Beneath  the  April  sky  together 


MAR  Y  A  SHLE  Y  TO  WNSEND.  505 

In  all  the  bloomy  April  weather, — 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I, 
In  all  the  blue  and  amber  weather. 

We  passed  the  marsh  where  pewits  sung, 
My  Love,  my  Summer  Love  and  I; 
We  passed  the  reeds  and  brakes  among, 
Beneath  the  smilax  vines  we  swung; 
We  grasped  at  lilies  whitely  drooping 
'Mid  the  rank  growth  of  grass  and  sedge, 
Or  bending  toward  the  water's  edge, 
As  for  their  own  reflection  stooping. 
Then  talked  we  of  the  legend  old, 
Wherein  Narcissus'  fate  is  told; 
And  turned  from  that  to  grander  story 
Of  heroed  past,  or  modern  glory, 
Till  the  quaint  town  of  New  Orleans, 
Its  Spanish  and  its  French  demesnes, 
Like  some  vague  mirage  of  the  mind, 
In  Memory's  cloudlands  lay  defined; 
And  back  and  backward  seemed  to  creep 
Commerce,  with  all  her  tangled  tongues, 
Till  Silence  smote  her  lusty  lungs, 
And  Distance  lulled  Discord  to  sleep. 


HO  W  MUCH  DO    YOU  LO  VE  ME. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  1 

Go  ask  the  deep  sea, 
How  many  rare  gems 

In  its  coral  caves  be; 
Or  ask  the  broad  billows 

That  ceaselessly  roar, 
How  many  bright  sands 

Do  they  kiss  on  the  shore. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  ? 
Go  ask  of  a  star, 


506  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

How  many  such  worlds 

In  the  universe  are; 
Or  ask  of  the  breezes, 

Which  soothingly  blow, 
From  whence  do  they  come 

And  whither  they  go. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  ? 

Go  ask  of  the  sun 
To  tell  when  his  course 

Will  for  ever  be  done. 
Or  demand  of  the  dust, 

Over  which  thou  hast  trod, 
How  many  cold  hearts 

Moulder  under  the  sod. 

How  much  do  I  love  thee  ? 

When  billow  and  sea 
And  star  shall  have  told 

All  their  secrets  to  thee — 
When  zephyr  and  sunbeam 

Their  courses  reveal — 
Thou  shalt  know  what  this  bosom 

Which  loves  thee  can  feel. 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

[Born  in  Johnstown  Centre,  Wisconsin.  Author  of  Drops  of 
Water  (New  York,  1872);  Maurine  (Milwaukee,  1875);  Shells 
(1883);  Poems  of  Passion  (Chicago,  1883);  Mai  MouUe  (New 
York,  1885),  and  Poems  of  Pleasure  (1888).  The  poems  quoted 
are  given  with  the  kind  permission  of  Belford,  Clarke  &  Co.] 

SOLITUDE. 

LAUGH,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone. 
For  the  sad  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 

But  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 


ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX.  507 

Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer; 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  on  the  air. 
The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 

But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go. 
They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 

But  they  do  not  need  your  woe. 
Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all. 
There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectared  wine, 

But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 

Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded  ; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by. 
Succeed  and  give,  and  it  helps  you  live, 

-  But  no  man  can  help  you  die. 
There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  long  and  lordly  train, 
But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 


ANSWERED. 

GOOD-BYE.     Yes,  I  am  going. 

Sudden?     Well,  you  are  right. 
But  a  startling  truth  came  home  to  me 

With  sudden  force  last  night. 
What  is  it  ?     Shall  I  tell  you  ? 

Nay,  that  is  why  I  go. 
I  am  running  away  from  the  battlefield, 

Turning  my  back  on  the  foe. 

Riddles  ?     You  think  me  cruel  ? 

Have  you  not  been  most  kind  ? 
Why,  when  you  question  me  like  that. 

What  answer  can  I  find  ? 


5o8  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

You  fear  you  fail  to  amuse  me, 
Your  husband's  friend  and  guest, 

Whom  he  bade  you  entertain  and  please  ? 
Well,  you  have  done  your  best. 

Then  why,  pray,  am  I  going  1 

A  friend  of  mine  abroad, 
Whose  theories  I  have  been  acting  upon, 

Has  proven  himself  a  fraud. 
You  have  heard  me  quote  from  Plato 

A  thousand  times,  no  doubt. 
Well,  I  have  discovered  he  did  not  know 

What  he  was  talking  about. 

You  think  I  am  talking  strangely  ? 

You  cannot  understand  1 
Well,  let  me  look  down  into  your  eyes, 

And  let  me  take  your  hand. 
I  am  running  away  from  danger, 

I  am  flying  before  I  fall, 
I  am  going,  because,  with  heart  and  soul, 

I  love  you.     That  is  all. 
There,  now  you  are  white  with  anger, 

I  knew  it  would  be  so. 
You  should  not  question  a  man  too  close 

When  he  tells  you  he  must  go. 


MIDSUMMER. 

AFTER  the  Maytime  and  after  the  Junetime 

Rare  with  blossoms  and  perfume  sweet, 
Cometh  the  round  world's  royal  noontime, 

The  red  midsummer  of  blazing  heat, 
When  the  sun,  like  an  eye  that  never  closes, 

Bends  on  the  earth  its  fevered  gaze, 
And  the  winds  are  still  and  the  crimson  roses 

Droop,  and  wither,  and  die  in  its  rays. 


ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX.  509 

Unto  my  heart  has  come  this  season, 

O  my  lady,  my  worshipped  one, 
When,  over  the  stars  of  Pride  and  Reason, 

Sails  Love's  cloudless  noonday  sun. 
Like  a  great  red  ball  in  my  bosom,  burning 

With  fires  that  nothing  can  quench  or  tame, 
It  glows  till  rny  heart  itself  seems  turning 

Into  a  liquid  lake  of  flame. 

The  hopes  half  shy  and  the  sighs  all  tender, 

The  dreams  and  fears  of  an  earlier  day, 
Under  the  noontide's  royal  splendour 

Droop  like  roses,  and  wither  away. 
From  the  hills  of  Doubt  no  winds  are  blowing, 

From  the  isles  of  Pain  no  breeze  is  sent, — 
Only  the  sun,  in  a  white  heat  glowing 

Over  an  ocean  of  great  content. 
Sink,  O  my  soul,  in  this  golden  glory  ! 

Die,  0  my  heart,  in  thy  rapture  swoon! 
For  the  autumn  must  come  with  its  mournful  story, 

And  Love's  midsummer  will  fade  too  soon. 


THE  LOST  GARDEN. 

THERE  was  a  fair  green  garden  sloping 

From  the  south-east  side  of  a  mountain  ledge, 
And  the  earliest  tints  of  the  dawn  came  groping 

Down  through  its  paths,  from  the  day's  dim  edge. 
The  bluest  skies  and  the  reddest  roses 

Arched  and  varied  its  velvet  sod, 
And  the  glad  birds  sung  as  the  soul  supposes 

The  angels  sing  on  the  hills  of  God. 

I  wandered  there  when  my  veins  seemed  bursting 
With  life's  rare  rapture  and  keen  delight, 

And  yet  in  my  heart  was  a  constant  thirsting 
For  something  over  the  mountain's  height. 


5io  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

I  wanted  to  stand  in  the  blaze  of  glory 

That  turned  to  crimson  the  peaks  of  snow, 

And  the  winds  from  the  west  all  breathed  a  story 
Of  realms  and  regions  I  longed  to  know. 

I  saw,  on  the  garden's  south  side,  growing 

The  brightest  blossoms  that  breathe  of  June ; 
I  saw  in  the  east  how  the  sun  was  glowing, 

And  the  gold  air  shook  with  a  wild  bird's  tune  : 
I  heard  the  drip  of  a  silver  fountain, 

And  the  pulse  of  a  young  laugh  throbbed  with  glee. 
But  still  I  looked  out  over  the  mountain, 

Where  unnamed  wonders  awaited  me. 

I  came  at  last  to  the  western  gateway, 

That  led  to  the  path  I  longed  to  climb ; 
But  a  shadow  fell  on  my  spirit  straightway, 

For  close  at  niy  side  stood  greybeard  Time. 
I  paused  with  feet  that  were  fain  to  linger 

Hard  by  the  garden's  golden  gate, 
But  Time  stood  pointing  with  one  stern  finger, — 

"  Pass  on,"  he  said,  "  for  the  day  grows  late." 

And  now  on  the  chill  grey  cliffs  I  wander  : 

The  heights  recede  which  I  thought  to  find, 
And  the  light  seems  dim  on  the  mountain  yonder 

When  I  think  of  the  garden  I  left  behind. 
Should  I  stand  at  last  on  its  summit's  splendour, 

I  know  full  well  it  would  not  repay 
For  the  fair,  lost  tints  of  the  dawn  so  tender 

That  crept  up  over  the  edge  o'  day. 

I  would  go  back,  but  the  ways  are  winding 

(If  ways  there  are  to  that  land,  in  sooth. 
For  what  man  ever  succeeds  in  finding 

A  path  to  the  garden  of  his  lost  youth  ?) 
But  I  think  sometimes,  when  the  June  stars  glisten, 

That  a  rose  scent  drifts  from  far  away, 
And  I  know,  when  I  lean  from  the  cliffs  and  listen, 

That  a  young  laugh  breaks  on  the  air,  like  spray. 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX.  511 

THE    STOR  Y. 

THEY  met  each  other  in  the  glade, 

She  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
Alack  the  day  !     Alack  the  maid  ! 

She  blushed  in  swift  surprise. 
Alas,  alas,  the  woe  that  comes  from  lifting  up  the  eyes  ! 

The  pail  was  full,  the  path  was  steep, 

He  reached  to  her  his  hand, 
She  felt  her  warm  young  pulses  leap, 

But  did  not  understand. 

Alas,  alas,  the  woe  that  comes  from  clasping  hand  with 
hand ! 

She  sat  beside  him  in  the  wood, 

He  wooed  with  words  and  sighs. 
Ah  !  love  in  spring  seems  sweet  and  good, 

And  maidens  are  not  wise. 
Alas,  alas,  the  woe  that  comes  from  listing  lovers'  sighs  ! 

The  summer  sun  shone  fairly  down, 

The  wind  blew  from  the  south ; 
As  blue  eyes  gazed  in  eyes  of  brown, 

His  kiss  fell  on  her  mouth. 
Alas,  alas,  the  woe  that  comes  from  kisses  on  the  mouth, 

And  now  the  autumn  time  is  near, 

The  lover  roves  away. 
With  breaking  heart  and  falling  tear, 

She  sits  the  livelong  day. 
Alas,  alas,  for  breaking  hearts  when  lovers  rove  away. 


AD  VICE. 

I  MUST  do  as  you  do  1     Your  way,  I  own, 

Is  a  very  good  way.     And  still 
There  are  sometimes  two  straight  roads  to  a  town, 

One  over,  one  under  the  hill. 


512  YO  UNGER  AMERICAN  POE  TS. 

You  are  treading  the  safe  and  the  well-worn  way, 
That  the  prudent  choose  each  time, 

And  you  think  me  reckless  and  rash  to-day 
Because  I  prefer  to  climb. 

Your  path  is  the  right  one,  and  so  is  mine; 

We  are  not,  like  peas  in  a  pod, 
Compelled  to  lie  in  a  certain  line, 

Or  else  be  scattered  abroad. 

'Twere  a  dull  old  world,  methinks,  my  friend, 

If  we  all  went  just  one  way, 
Yet  our  paths  will  meet,  no  doubt,  at  the  end 

Though  they  lead  apart  to-day. 

You  like  the  shade,  and  I  like  the  sun; 

You  like  an  even  pace, 
I  like  to  mix  with  the  crowd,  and  run, 

And  then  rest  after  the  race. 

I  like  danger  and  storm  and  strife, 

You  like  a  peaceful  time; 
I  like  the  passion  and  surge  of  life, 

You  like  its  gentle  rhyme. 

You  like  buttercups,  dewy  sweet, 

And  crocuses,  framed  in  snow; 
I  like  roses  born  of  the  heat 

And  the  red  carnations'  glow. 

I  must  live  my  life,  not  yours,  my  friend, 

For  so  it  was  written  down, 
We  must  follow  our  given  paths  to  the  end, 

But  I  trust  we  shall  meet — in  town. 


MY  SHIPS. 

IF  all  the  ships  I  have  at  sea 
Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me, 
Weighed  down  with  gems  and  silk  and  gold, — 
Ah,  well !  the  harbour  could  not  hold 


ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

So  many  sails  as  there  would  be 
If  all  my  ships  came  in  from  sea. 

If  half  my  ships  came  home  from  sea, 
And  brought  their  precious  freight  to  me, 
Ah,  well !  I  should  have  wealth  as  great 
As  any  king  who  sits  in  state, 
So  rich  the  treasures  that  would  be 
In  half  my  ships  now  out  at  sea. 

If  just  one  ship  I  have  at  sea 

Should  come  a-sailing  home  to  me, 

Ah,  well !  the  storm-clouds  then  might  frown, 

For  if  the  others  all  went  down, 

Still,  rich  and  proud  and  glad  I'd  be 

If  that  one  ship  came  home  to  me. 

If  that  one  ship  went  down  at  sea, 

And  all  the  others  came  to  me, 

Weighed  down  with  gems  and  wealth  untold, 

With  glory,  honour,  riches,  gold, 

The  poorest  soul  on  earth  I'd  be 

If  that  one  ship  came  not  to  me. 

O  skies,  be  calm  !     O  winds,  blow  free, 
Blow  all  my  ships  safe  home  to  me! 
But  if  thou  sendest  some  a-wrack, 
To  nevermore  come  sailing  back, 
Send  any,  all,  that  skim  the  sea, 
But  bring  my  love  ship  home  to  me! 


WILL. 

THERE  is  no  chance,  no  destiny,  no  fate, 
Can  circumvent  or  hinder  or  control 
The  firm  resolve  of  a  determined  soul. 

Gifts  count  for  nothing;  will  alone  is  great, 

2K 


514  YOUNGER  AMERICAN  POETS. 

All  things  give  way  before  it,  soon  or  late. 
What  obstacle  can  stay  the  mighty  force 
Of  the  sea-seeking  river  in  its  course, 

Or  cause  the  ascending  orb  of  day  to  wait  1 

Each  well-born  soul  must  win  what  it  deserves. 

Let  the  fool  prate  of  luck  !     The  fortunate 
Is  he  whose  earnest  purpose  never  swerves, 
Whose  slightest  action  or  inaction  serves 

The  one  great  aim.     Why,  even  Death  stands  still, 

And  waits  an  hour  sometimes  for  such  a  will. 


WINTER  RAIN. 

FALLING  upon  the  frozen  world  last  night, 

I  heard  the  slow  beat  of  the  winter  rain. 

Poor  foolish  drops,  down-dripping  all  in  vain, 
The  icebound  Earth  but  mocked  their  puny  might. 
Far  better  had  the  fixedness  of  white 
And  uncomplaining  snows  (which  make  no  sign 
But  coldly  smile,  when  pitying  moonbeams  shine), 
Concealed  its  sorrow  from  all  human  sight. 
Long,  long  ago,  in  blurred  and  burdened  years, 

I  learned  the  uselessness  of  uttered  woe ; 

Though  sinewy  Fate  deal  her  most  skilful  blow, 
I  do  not  waste  the  gall  now  of  my  tears, 
But  feed  my  pride  upon  its  bitter,  while 
I  look  straight  in  the  world's  bold  eye  and  smile. 


LIFE. 

LIFE,  like  a  romping  schoolboy  full  of  glee, 
Doth  bear  us  on  his  shoulders  for  a  time  : 
There  is  no  path  too  steep  for  him  to  climb, 
With  strong,  lithe  limbs,  as  agile  and  as  free 
As  some  young  roe,  he  speeds  by  vale  and  sea, 
By  flowery  mead,  by  mountain  peak  sublime, 
And  all  the  world  seems  motion  set  to  rhyme, 


ELLA    WHEELER  WILCOX.  515 

Till,  tired  out,  he  cries,  "  Now,  carry  me !  " 

In  vain  we  murmur.    "  Come,"  Life  says,  "  fair  play," 

And  seizes  on  us.     God  !     He  goads  us  so. 
He  does  not  let  us  sit  down  all  the  day. 

At  each  new  step  we  feel  the  burden  grow, 

Till  our  bent  backs  seem  breaking  as  we  go, 
Watching  for  Death  to  meet  us  on  the  way. 


YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS 


Younger  Canadian  Poets. 


WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL. 

[Born  I860.] 

KEZIA  H. 

"  KEZIAH  !  Keziah  !  "  the  blue  lake  is  rocking, 
Out  over  its  bosom  the  white  gulls  are  flocking, 
Far  down  in  the  west  the  dim  islands  are  lying, 
While  through   the   hushed  vapours  the   shores  are 

replying : 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 

A  vine-clambered  cabin  with  blue  skies  that  bound  it, 
Wild  glamour  of  forest,  lake,  shoreland,  around  it, 
Far  calling  of  birds,  mists  rising  and  falling, 
While  through  the  hushed   silence  a  weird  voice  is 

calling : 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 

She  went   down  the  shore-path,  her  dark  eyes  were 

dreaming, 

The  sheen  of  her  hair  in  the  sunlight  was  gleaming, 
The  snow  of  her  neck  like  the  lake's  snowy  foaming, 
And  a  man's  promise  met  her  down  there  in  the 

gloaming : 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 


520  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

She  went  in  her  girlhood,  her  innocent  sweetness, 
She  went  in  her  trusting  glad  woman's  completeness, 
She  went  with  a  hope  and  returned  with  a  sorrow, 
A  horrible  dread  of  the  coming  to-morrow  : 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 

The  old  woman  moaneth,  her  meagre  form  swayeth, 
"  God's  curse  of  all  curses  on  him  who  betray eth," 
O  poor  foolish  girl-heart,  dead  past  our  reproving, 
God's  hate  on  the   base    heart    that  played  with  her 

loving. 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 


O  never,  0  never,  while  human  hearts  falter, 
Weak  penitent  prayers  at  the  foot  of  God's  altar, 
Not  man's  choking  creeds,  nor  heaven's  dread  thunder, 
Can  wipe  out  the  curse  from  the  lives  that  sleep  under. 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 


The  girl  like  a  flower  caught  late  in  life's  snowing, 
Too  full  of  love's  summer  for  October's  blowing, 
Died  quick  in  her  shame,  the  mother  her  sadness 
Wore  out  into  bitterness,  sorrow,  then  madness. 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 

Years  after  she'd  sit  by  the  hut  door  at  even, 
When  vapours  were  soft  over  lake,  shore  and  heaven, 
And  dream  in  her  madness  a  girl-figure  coming 
With  youth's  dreamy  beauty  in  out  of  the  gloaming. 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 

Dead,   gone,   these    long    years    by    the    hut-side  she's 

sleeping, 

Where  over  its  dead  walls  the  red  vines  are  creeping, 
But  the  fisher-folk  say  that  at  summer  eves'  falling, 
In  out  of  the  stillness  they  hear  a  voice  calling  : 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 


WILLIAM  WILFRED  CAMPBELL.  521 

And  over  the  lake  with  its  glamour  of  vapours, 
Through  which  the  faint  stars  soon  will  glimmer  like 

tapers, 

From  the  dim  islands  lit  with  the  purpled  day's  dying, 
Like  a  far,  caverned  echo  a  faint  voice  replying, 
"Keziah!  Keziah!" 


A    LAKE   MEMORY. 

FROM   THE    CENTURY. 

THE  lake  comes  throbbing  in  with  voice  of  pain 
Across  the  flats,  athwart  the  sunset's  glow, 

I  see  her  face,  I  know  her  voice  again, 
Her  lips,  her  breath,  O  God,  as  long  ago. 

To  live  the  sweet  past  over  I  would  fain, 
As  lives  the  day  in  the  dead  sunset's  fire, 

That  all  these  wild,  wan  marshlands  now  would  stain, 
With  the  dawn's  memories,  loves  and  flushed  desire. 

I  call  her  back  across  the  vanished  years, 

Nor  vain — a  white-armed  phantom  fills  her  place; 

Its  eyes  the  wind-blown  sunset  fires,  its  tears 
This  rain  of  spray  that  blows  about  my  face. 


THREE    THINGS. 

THREE  things  are  strange  to  me; 

— The  kiss  of  the  west-wind's  breath, 

— The  wonder  of  life  and  death, 

— And  the  thoughts  that  the  future  hath. 

Three  things  are  sad  to  me; 
— The  earth  on  a  new-made  grave, 
— The  sob  of  winds  in  a  cave, 
— And  a  heart  that  never  gave. 


522  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Three  things  are  sweet  to  me; 

— The  song  of  a  bird  that  flies, 

— The  blue  of  the  summer  skies, 

— And  the  light  in  a  young  wife's  eyes. 


MANITOU. 

THE  SACRED  ISLAND  OP  THE  INDIANS  IN  LAKE  HURON. 

GIRDLED  by  Huron's  throbbing  and  thunder, 
Out  on  the  drift  and  lift  of  its  blue; 
Walled  by  mists  from  the  world  asunder, 
Far  from  all  hate  and  passion  and  wonder, 
Lieth  the  isle  of  the  Manitou. 

Here  where  the  surfs  of  the  great  lake  trample, 
Thundering  time-worn  caverns  through, 
Beating  on  rock-coasts  aged  and  ample; 
Reareth  the  Manitou's  mist-walled  temple, 
Floored  with  forest  and  roofed  with  blue. 

Grey  crag-battlements,  seared  and  broken, 

Keep  these  passes  for  ages  to  come; 

Never  a  watch-word  here  is  spoken, 

Never  a  single  sign  or  token, 

From  hands  that  are  motionless,  lips  that  are  dumb. 

Only  the  Sun-god  rideth  over, 
Marking  the  seasons  with  track  of  flame  ; 
Only  the  wild  fowl  float  and  hover; 
Flocks  of  clouds  whose  white  wings  cover 
Spaces  on  spaces  without  a  name. 

Year  by  year  the  ages  onward 

Drift,  but  it  lieth  out  here  alone; 

Earthward  the  mists  and  the  earth  mists  sunward, 

Starward  the  days,  and  the  nights  blown  downward 

Whisper  the  forests,  the  beaches  make  moan. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  523 

Far  from  the  world  and  its  passions  fleeting, 
'Neath  quiet  of  noon-day  and  stillness  of  star, 
Shore  unto  shore  each  sendeth  greeting, 
Where  the  only  woe  is  the  surf's  wild  beating, 
That  throbs  from  the  maddened  lake  afar. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON. 
BY  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

BY  the  margin  of  the  fountain,  in  the  soulful  summer 

season, 
While  the  song  of  silver-throated  singers  smote  and 

shook  the  air, 
While  the  life  seemed  sweet  enough  to  live  without  a 

ray  of  reason 

Save   that  it  was,   and   that   the  world  was   lovely 
everywhere. 

By   the    fountain, —  where    the    Oreads,    through    the 

moonlit  nights  enchanted 
Of  the  summer,   may  have  sported  and  have  laved 

their  shining  limbs : 
By  the  fountain, — which  in  elder   days  the  Moenads 

may  have  haunted, 

Giving  all  the  praise  to  Bacchus,  twining  wreaths  and 
singing  hymns : 

By  the  fountain  whose  pellucid  waves  within  the  delicate 

basin 
Daintly  tinkling,  dropping  dreamily,  made  a  music  in 

the  ears 

Like  the  echo  of  some  high,  some  arch-angelic  diapason 
Drifting   downward  from  the   ever  swinging,  never 
silent  spheres: 


524  .YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

By    the   fountain    fringed   with    laurel,    whose    green 

branches,  intertwining, 
Let  but  few  swift  shafts  of  sunshine  in  to  paint  the 

odorous  space, 

Lo  !  a  maiden  fairer  far  than  any  future  lay  reclining 
On  an  arm  whose  white,  warm  beauty  shot  a  splendour 
through  the  place. 

Oh  her  eyes  were  like  to  Leda's  lights  divine  to  him  who 

misses 
In  a  desert  land  his  pathway  when  the  moon  is  on 

the  wane; 
And  her  tress  was  dark  as  Vashti's  and  her  lips  were 

ripe  for  kisses, 

Though  on  them  had  fallen  no  kiss  as  yet  of  passion 
or  of  pain. 

And  her  smile  was  bright  and  splendid  as  the  east  when 

morn  is  breaking, 

Only  softer  far  and  sweeter,  far  diviner  and  more  calm, 
And  her  voice  was  like  the  song  of  birds  the  sylvan 

echoes  waking 

In  the  gardens  of  a  king  where  gleam  the  myrtle  and 
the  palm. 

Then  the  blood  that  fed  my  pulses  leaped  to  life  as  if 

Apollo 
Had  recrossed  the  March  meridian,  bringing  winter 

in  his  track, 
And  my  heart  made  merry  music  while  the  streamlet 

in  the  hollow 
Did  its  very  best  to  answer  with  a  hopeful  echo  back. 

Then  the  poet  and  the  lover  leapt  to  life  and  wrought 

within  me, 
Who  'neath  many  a  constellation  had  been  but  a  man 

to  men: — 
Who  had  knelt  before  the  altars  and  the  fanes  that 

failed  to  win  me 

From  reproachings  and   repinings  to  my  better  self 
again. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  525 

THE   WA  Y  OF  THE   WORLD. 

WE  sneer  and  we  laugh  with  the  lip — the  most  of  us 

do  it, 
Whenever  a  brother  goes  down  like  a  weed  with  the 

tide; 
We  point  with  the  finger  and  say — Oh  we  knew  it !  we 

knew  it ! 

But  see !    we  are  better  than  he  was,  and  we  will 
abide. 

He  walked  in  the  way  of  his  will — the  way  of  desire, 
In  the  Appian  way  of  his  will  without  ever  a  bend; 
He  walked  in  it  long,  but  it  led  him  at  last  to  the 

mire, — 

But  we  who  are  stronger  will  stand  and  endure  to 
the  end. 

His  thoughts  were  all  visions — all  fabulous  visions  of 

flowers, 

Of  bird  and  of  song  and  of  soul  which  is  only  a  song ; 
His  eyes  looked  all  at  the  stars  in  the  firmament,  ours 
Were  fixed  on  the  earth  at  our  feet,  so  we  stand  and 
are  strong. 

He  hated  the  sight  and  the  sound  and  the  sob  of  the 

city; 
He  sought  for  his  peace  in  the  wood  and  the  musical 

wave; 
He  fell,   and  we  pity  him  never,  and  why  should  we 

pity- 
Yea,  why  should  we  mourn  for  him — we  who  still 
stand,  who  are  brave  ? 

Thus  speak  we  and  think  not,  we  censure  unheeding, 

unknowing, — 
Unkindly   and   blindly  we  utter  the  words    of   the 

brain; 

We  see  not  the  goal  of  our  brother,  we  see  but  his  going, 
And  sneer  at  his  fall  if  he  fall,  and  laugh  at  his  pain. 


526  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Ah  me  !  the  sight  of  the  sod  on  the  coffin  lid, 

And  the  sound,  and  the  sob,  and  the  sigh  of  it  as  it 
falls ! 

Ah  me  the  beautiful  face  forever  hid 
By  four  wild  walls  ! 

You  hold  it  a  matter  of  self-gratulation  and  praise 
To  have  thrust  to  the  dust,  to  have  trod  on  a  heart 

that  was  true, — 
To  have  ruined  it  there  in  the  beauty  and  bloom  of  its 

days? 

Very  well !     There  is  somewhere  a  Nemesis  waiting 
for  you. 


SHELLE  Y. 


"  DUST  unto  Dust?"  No  spirit  unto  spirit 
For  thee,  beloved  !  for  thou  wert  all  fire, 
All  luminous  flame,  all  passionate  desire, 

All  things  that  mighty  beings  do  inherit, 
All  things  that  mighty  beings  do  require. 
"  Dust  unto  dust  1 "     Ah  no  !     Thou  did'st  respire 
In  such  a  high  and  holy  atmosphere, 
Where  clouds  are  not,  but  calms,  and  all  things  clear, — 

Not  one  like  ours,  but  purer  far  and  higher, — 

Thou  did'st  not  know  of  dust.     How  "  dust  to  dust " 
then  here  1 

n. 

Spirit  to  spirit  be  it !     Thou  wert  born 
An  heir  apparent  to  the  throne  of  mind. 
It  lessens  not  thy  right  that  some  were  blind, 

And  looked  on  thee  and  fixt  a  lip  of  scorn, 
And  threw  on  thee  the  venom  of  their  kind  : 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  527 

Thou  wert  a  brother  to  the  sun  and  wind 
And  it  is  meet  that  thou  art  of  them  now. 
I  see  thee  standing,  with  thy  godlike  brow 
High-arched  and  star-lit,  upwardly  inclined, 
While  at  thy  feet  the  singers  of  sweet  song  do  bow. 

in. 

For  spirits  are  not  as  men :  these  did  not  know 
An  angel  had  been  with  them  on  the  earth, — 
A  singer  who  had  caused  a  glorious  birth 

Of  glorious  after-singers  here  below, — 

Where  much  was  sung  and  little  sung  of  worth. 

I  see  the  stars  about  thee  as  a  girth, — 

The  moon  in  splendour  standing  by  thy  side, 
And  lesser  moons  that  evermore  do  glide 

About  her  circling,  making  songs  of  mirth, — 

And  o'er  thy  head  supreme  Apollo  in  his  pride, — 

IV. 

Pleased  with  the  homage  that  his  children  give  thee, 

Remembering  it  as  his,  even  as  thou  art; 

Knowing  thy  heart  a  portion  of  his  heart, 
And  spreading  forth  his  breast  as  to  receive  thee, — 

Twin  soul  of  his,  that  had  been  rent  apart. 
I  leave  to  marts  the  language  of  the  mart. 

Ashes  to  ashes  say  above  the  crust 

Of  him  who  was  but  ashes, — it  is  just ! 
But  over  thee  as  homeward  thou  did'st  start, 
Spirit  to  spirit  was  true,  and  not  "  dust  unto  dust ! " 


TRUE  LOVE  AND  TRIED. 

A    RONDEL. 

TUUE  love  and  tried  that  never  sleeps, 
Though  all  the  world  may  sleep  beside: 

But  still  perpetual  vigil  keeps — 
True  love  and  tried  ! 


528  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Whatever  comes  with  time  or  tide, — 

Whoever  sows — whoever  reaps, — 
Still  faithful  will  this  love  abide. 

Yea,  more  !  Beyond  the  purple  steeps, 
Beyond  the  river's  margin  wide, 

We  yet  shall  know  thine  utmost  deeps 
True  love  and  tried  ! 


WHAT  MATTERS  IT1 


WHAT  reck  we  of  the  creeds  of  men  1 — 
We  see  them — we  shall  see  again. 

What  reck  we  of  the  tempest's  shock  ? 

What  reck  we  where  our  anchor  lock  1 
On  golden  marl  or  mould — 

In  salt-sea  flower  or  riven  rock — 
What  matter — so  it  hold  1 


ii. 

What  matters  it  the  spot  we  fill 

On  Earth's  green  sod  when  all  is  said  ? — 
When  feet  and  hands  and  heart  are  still 

And  all  our  pulses  quieted  ? 
When  hate  or  love  can  kill  nor  thrill, — 

When  we  are  done  with  life  and  dead  ? 


in. 

So  we  be  haunted  night  nor  day 
By  any  sin  that  we  have  sinned, 

What  matter  where  we  dream  away 
The  ages  1 — in  the  isles  of  Ind, 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  529 

In  Tybee,  Cuba,  or  Cathay, 

Or  in  some  world  of  winter  wind  ? 


IV. 

It  may  be  I  would  wish  to  sleep 

Beneath  the  wan,  white  stars  of  June, 

And  hear  the  southern  breezes  creep 
Between  me  and  the  mellow  moon; 

But  so  I  do  not  wake  to  weep 
At  any  night  or  any  noon, 


v. 

And  so  the  generous  gods  allow 

Repose  and  peace  from  evil  dreams, 

It  matters  little  where  or  how 
•My  couch  be  spread  : — by  moving  streams, 

Or  on  some  eminent  mountain's  brow 
Kist  by  the  morn's  or  sunset's  beams. 


VI. 

For  we  shall  rest :  the  brain  that  planned, 
That  thought  or  wrought  or  well  or  ill, 

At  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  shall  stand, 
Not  working  any  work  or  will, 

While  eye  and  lip  and  heart  and  hand 
Shall  all  be  still— shall  all  be  still ! 


OUR    POETS. 

THESE  men  to  loose  or  burst  the  gallingchains 
Of  those  who  mourn  in  darkness  over  sea  ! 

These  men — who  feel  a  fever  in  their  veins 

At  every  moon  change — these  to  set  men  free  ! 


530  -  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

These — these  ! — who  sing  in  rapture  of  the  Czar 
And  howl  their  hallelujahs  in  his  ears 

To  bruise  the  head  of  that  grim  monster — war, 
To  close  the  eye  of  bitterness  and  tears  ! 

These  men  of  servile  souls  and  servile  songs 
To  name  the  day  when  despotism  shall  cease  ! 

These  men,  forsooth,  to  right  the  people's  wrongs 
And  give  the  world  her  harvest-time  of  Peace. 

What  can  he  know  of  joys  or  miseries 

Yon  vain,  luxurious  fool,  who  lolls  at  ease 
And  sips  the  foam  alone  upon  the  cup  ? 

Whoe'er  would  know  or  one  or  all  of  these 

Must  take  the  ponderous  chalice,  hold  it  up — 
And  drink  life's  vintage  to  its  very  lees  ! 


DEATH* 

DEAR  friend,  I  know  this  world  is  kin, 
And  all  of  hate  is  but  a  breath  : 

We  all  are  friends,  made  perfect  in 
Our  near  relationship  by  death. 

And  so,  although  it  was  not  mine 
To  meet  thee  in  thy  walk  below, 

Or  know  of  thee  till  feet  of  thine 

Were  on  the  hills  no  man  can  know; 

For  friendship's  sake  I  fain  would  bring 
A  flower,  or  two,  to  thee  to  prove 

That  memory  lives,  that  death's  sharp  sting 
Hath  still  an  antidote  in  love. 


In  memoriam  of  Ma|?gie  Meagher. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  531 

Devoured  by  his  desire  of  her 

The  king,  who  ever  loved  her  best, 
Hath  stilled  the  billowing  of  her  breast, 

Hath  kissed  her  so  no  pulse  doth  stir, 
But  all  of  her  doth  lie  at  rest. 


Then,  knowing  she  may  never  now 
Wish  any  else,  he  takes  his  leave, 
And  little  recks  how  they  may  grieve 

Who  see  the  splendour  of  her  brow 

Gleam  ghastly  through  the  gathering  eve; 


Who  see  her  lying  pale,  supine, 

With  wild  red  roses  twined  with  fair 
About  her  throat,  and  in  her  hair, 

And  on  her  bosom, — all  divine 
If  but  a  little  life  were  there. 


Nor  heeds  he  aught  the  sunless  glooms 
And  fair  forms  folded  from  the  light 
In  close  graves  crowded  far  from  sight 

In  lone  lands  dedicate  to  tombs 

And  scarce  to  starbeams  known  at  night; 


But  goes  his  way  ;  and  as  he  goes 

Leaves  that  we  hold  as  sorrow  here, — 
The  pain  of  parting  and  the  tear, 

The  broken  lily  and  the  rose 

Down  fallen  with  the  fallen  year. 


Cold  king,  most  lone  and  absolute  ! 
What  maid  would  be  desired  of  thee  1 
From  thy  embrace  who  would  not  flee  ? 

What  though  a  monarch,  being  mute 
In  love  of  thine  what  love  could  be  ? 


532  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Can  any  good  be  silent  so  ? 

Be  dumb,  and  do  its  work  and  pass 
Swift  as  an  image  in  a  glass  ? 

Ah,  all  of  good  that  we  can  know 
Thus  comes  to  us,  and  leaves,  alas  ! 

While  we,  who  have  no  key  to  ope 
Death's  cabinet  of  mysteries, 
Can  only  vainly  strain  our  eyes, 

And  hold  to  heaven  and  that  high  hope 
That  death  is  good  in  any  guise  ! 


And  if  but  slight  to  thee  appear 

The  tribute  brought,  now  that  thine  eyes 
May  view  through  all  the  eternal  year 

The  fairer  flowers  of  Paradise, — 

If  dim  and  all  unworthy  look 
The  offering,  yet  remember  well 

We  do  not  sleep  by  Eden's  brook, 
Or  dream  on  beds  of  Asphodel : 

So  only  bring  the  flowers  that  bloom 
Beside  us,  fresh  enough  and  fair ; 

Enough  to  wither  on  thy  tomb  : 

And  with  our  hearts — behold  them  there  ! 


ON  LIFE'S  SEA. 

ON  Life's  sea  !     Pull  soon 

The  evening  cometh — cheerless,  sad,  and  cold 
Past  is  the  golden  splendour  of  the  noon, 

The  darkness  comes  apace — and  I  grow  old. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  CAMERON.  533 

Yet  the  ship  of  Fate 

Drives  onward  o'er  the  waters  mountain  high  ! 
And  now  the  day  goes  out  the  western  gate 

And  not  a  star  is  smiling  in  the  sky. 


Gloom  before — behind  ! 

Rude  billows  battling  with  an  iron  shore 
On  either  hand  :  anon,  the  chilling  wind 

Smiting  the  cordage  with  an  angry  roar. 


Then  the  compass  veers 
*  And  doth  avail  not :  for  the  dust  of  earth 
Hath  marred  its  beauty,  and  the  rust  of  years 
Hath  made  its  mechanism  of  little  worth. 


And  tho'  oft  I  gaze 

Into  the  lost,  yet  ever  lovely  Past, 
And  strive  to  call  a  power  from  perished  days 

With  which  to  dare  the  midnight  and  the  blast, 


The  power  flies  my  hand ; 

And  my  sad  heart  grows  wearier  day  by  day, 
Beholding  not  the  lights  which  line  the  land 

And  throw  their  smile  upon  the  desert  way  : 


For  the  star  of  Hope 

Shed  but  one  beam  along  the  lonely  path, 
Then  slid  behind  the  clouds  adown  the  slope, 

And  set  forever  in  a  sea  of  wrath  ! 


Yet  the  ship  moves  on — 

Aye,  ever  on  !  still  drifting  with  the  tide. 
With  Faith  alone  to  look  or  lean  upon, 

As  pilot  o'er  the  waters  wild  and  wide. 

2M 


534  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Yet  for  all,  I  feel 

My  bark  shall  bound  on  billows  gentler  rolled. 
Be  Faith  my  pilot,  then,  until  the  keel 

Shall  kiss  and  clasp  the  glittering  sands  of  gold ! 


RELICS. 

PUT  them  aside — I  hate  the  sight  of  them  ! — 
That  golden  wonder  from  her  golden  hair — 
That  faded  lily  which  she  once  did  wear 

Upon  her  bosom — and  that  cold  hard  gem 
Which  glittered  on  her  taper  finger  fair. 

They  are  of  her,  and,  being  so,  they  must 

Be  like  to  her,  and  she  is  all  a  lie 

That  seems  a  truth  when  truth  is  not  a-nigh,- 
A  thing  whose  love  is  light  as  balance  dust. 

I  loved  her  once,  I  love — nay,  put  them  by! 

Conceal  them  like  the  dead  from  sight  away ! 
I  must  forget  her  and  she  was  so  dear 
In  former  times  !  I  could  not  bear  them  near : 

Let  them  be  sealed  forever  from  the  day — 
Be  wrapt  in  darkness,  shrouded — buried  here 

Where  never  more  my  eye  may  rest  on  them  ! 
This  golden  wonder  from  her  golden  hair — 
This  faded  lily  that  she  once  did  wear 

Upon  her  bosom — and  this  joyless  gem 
That  glittered  on  her  taper  finger  fair. 


BLISS  CARMAN.  535 

BLISS  CARMAN. 

[Born  15th  April  1861,  at  Fredericton,  New  Brunswick.] 

STIR. 

A  STIR  on  the  brink  of  evening, 
A  tint  in  the  warm  grey  sky, ' 

The  sound  of  loosened  rivers  : 
And  Spring  goes  by. 

A  stir  at  the  rim  of  winter, 

A  wing  on  the  crisp  midnight  : 

A  herald  from  dnsk  to  gloaming 
In  Northward  flight. 

A  stir  in  the  dawn  re-arousing 

The  wild  undeparted  unrest, 
To  forth  in  the  springtime  and  follow 

The  infinite  quest. 

At  stir  of  the  golden  April 
By  Indian-willow  and  stream, 

The  sap  goes  upward  with  morning, 
And  death  is  a  dream. 


DEATH  IN  APRIL. 

"  In  low  lands  where  the  sun  and  moon  arc  mute." 

A  ve  atque  Vale. 

O  MOTHER  England,  bow  thy  reverend  head 

This  April  morning.     Over  Northlands  wan 
Midspring  comes  back  to  freshen  thee  once  more, 


536  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

With  daisies  on  the  mounds  of  thy  loved  dead, 
Like  Chaucer's  benediction  from  the  dawn, 

Or  his,  ah  me  !  who  down  thy  forest  floor 
Went  yestereven.     Now 

In  vain  thou  art  regirdled,  as  alone 
Of  all  the  elder  lands  or  younger  thou 
With  hawthorn  spray  canst  be, — that  weariless 

Eternal  charm  of  thine,  thou  home  of  blown 
Seafarers  in  the  storm  through  dark  and  stress. 

"Tis" spring  once  more  upon  the  Cumner  hills, 
And  the  shy  Cumner  vales  are  sweet  with  rain, 

With  blossom,  and  with  sun.     The  burden  of  time 

By  eerie  woodland  messengers  full  fills 
Our  unremembered  treasuries  of  pain 

With  long-lost  tales  of  unf  orgotten  prime ; 
The  stir  of  winds  asleep, 

Roaming  the  orchards  through  unlanguid  hours, 
Allures  us  to  explore  the  vernal  deep 
And  unhorizoned  hush  wherein  we  wend, 

Yet  always  some  elusive  weird  there  lowers, 
Haunting  its  uttermost  cloud  walls  unkenned. 

There  skirt  the  dim  outroads  of  April's  verge, — 

Memorial  of  an  elder  age, — grey  wraiths 
Which  went  nowhither  when  the  world  was  young, 
Grim  ghosts  which  haunt  the  marges  of  the  surge 

Of  latest  silence.     Beaming  sunshine  bathes 
The  wanderers  of  life,  and  still  among 

The  corners  of  the  dawn 
Lurk  these  dark  exiles  of  the  nether  sea, 

Unbanished,  unrecalled  from  ages  gone. 

Disowned  ideals,  deeds,  or  Furies  blind, 
Or  murdered  selves, — I  know  not  what  they  be, 

Yet  are  they  terrible  though  death  be  kind. 

Companioned  by  the  myriad  hosts  of  eld, 
We  journey  to  a  land  beyond  the  sweep 


BLISS  CARMAN.  537 

Of  knowledge  to  determine.     Tented  where 
The  storied  heroes  watch  aforetime  held, 

We  hold  encampment  for  a  night  and  sleep 
Into  the  dawn ;  till,  restless,  here  and  there 

A  sleeper,  having  dreamed 
Of  music,  and  the  childhood  sound  of  birds, 

And  the  clear  run  of  river  heads  which  gleamed 

Along  his  hither  coming  through  the  gloom, 
Bouses  from  his  late  slumber,  and  upgirds 

Him  to  look  forth  where  the  gold  shadows  loom. 


Ah,  Oumner,  Cumner,  where  is  morning  now  1 
A  nightwatch  did  he  bide  with  thee,  but  who 

Hath  his  clear  prime  ?     Perchance  the  great  dead 
Names, 

Wide  bruited,  shall  restore  thee  him,  if  thou 
His  captive  flight  with  ransom  flowers  pursue 

And  gleaming  swallows  down  the  glittering  Thames 
Where  the  long  sea-winds  go. 

In  vain,  in  vain  !     To  the  hid  wells  of  tears 
In  their  hot  waste  thou  canst  not  journey  so, 
Nor  make  leap  up  the  old  desire,  outworn ; 

For  Corjdon  is  dead  these  thousand  years, — 
Dear  Corydon  who  died  this  April  morn. 


O  mother  April,  mother  of  all  dreams, 

Child  of  remembrance,  mother  of  regret, 
Inheritor  of  silence  and  desire, 
Who  dost  revisit  now  forsaken  streams, 

Canst  thou,  their  spirit,  evermore  forget 
How  one  sweet  touch  of  immemorial  fire 

Erewhile  did  use  to  flush 
The  music  of  their  wells,  as  sunset  light 

Is  laid  athwarb  the  springtime  with  keen  hush  ? 

Being  so  gracious  and  so  loved,  hast  thou 
In  all  thy  realm  no  shelter  from  the  night 

Where  Corydon  may  keep  with  Thyrsis  now  1 


538  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Hast  thou  some  far  sequestering  retreat 

We  can  but  measure  by  the  pause  and  swing 

Of  old  returning  seasons  filled  with  change  ? 

When  far  from  this  world,  whither  do  thy  feet 
Lead  thee  upon  the  margins  of  the  spring? 

Through  what  calm  lulls  of  weather  dost  thou  range 
In  smiling  reverie, 

Between  the  crisp  of  dawn  and  noon's  white  glare  1 
Beyond  the  borders  of  the  wintry  sea, 
Remembering  those  who  loved  thy  garment's  hem 

As  children  love  the  oxeyes,  dost  thou  there 
Reserve  a  shadow  of  content  for  them  1 


Belike  some  tender  little  grave-eyed  boy, 

Of  mild  regard  and  wistful,  plaintive  moods, 

Fondling  of  earth,  darling  of  God,  too  shy 

For  fellowship  with  comrades,  finds  employ 
In  undiscoverable  solitudes 

Of  childhood,  when  the  gravel  paths  are  dry, 
And  the  still  noons  grow  long. 

In  the  old  garden's  nook  of  quiet  sun, 

Where  brownies,  elfin  things,  and  sun  motes  throng 
He  builds  a  hut  of  the  half-brown  fir  boughs, — 

Whose  winter  banking  for  the  flowers  is  done, — 
And  there  all  day  his  royal  fairy  house 

He  keeps,  with  entertainment  of  such  guests 
As  no  man  may  bring  home  ;  he  peoples  it 

As  never  Homer  peopled  Troy  with  kings. 

In  the  -wide  morning  his  unnamed  behests 
Strange  foresters  obey,  while  he  doth  sit 

And  murmur  what  his  sparrow  playmate  sings 
From  the  dark  cedar  hedge. 

Twin  tiny  exiles  from  the  vast  outland, 
They  know  the  secret  unrecorded  pledge 
Whereby  the  children  of  the  dawn  are  told. 

The  toiling  small  red  ants  are  his  own  band 
Of  servitors  ;  his  minstrels  from  of  old — 


BLISS  CARMAN.  539 

Light-hearted  pillagers  of  golden  shrines — 

The  bees  were,  in  the  willows ;  row  on  row 
Are  his  the  tall  white  lilacs  in  the  sun, 
And  his  the  stainless  roof-work  of  the  pines. 

He  in  that  wide  unhaste  beats  to  and  fro, 
Borne  far  a-wind  as  a  poised  bird  might  run, 

Or  as  a  sunburnt  shard 
Might  gleam,  washed  over  by  the  glimmering  sea  : 

A  mother  hand  hath  still  his  doom  in  guard ; 

The  sparrow  cadence  and  the  lilac's  prime 
Go  build  the  soul  up  of  a  man  to  be, 

While  yet  he  kens  them  not,  nor  self,  nor  time. 

O  mother  April,  mother  of  all  dreams, 

In  thy  far  dwelling  keepest  thou  for  him 
Such  hospitable  bounty  ?  Hast  thou  there 
A  welcome  of  seclusion  and  sweet  streams 

Of  sheer  blue  waters,  at  whose  running  brim, 
Under  the  gold  of  that  enchanted  air, 

Thy  frail  windflowers  are  spread  1 
Crown  with  thy  smile  the  end  of  his  rare  quest, 

And  cherish  on  thy  knees  that  holiest  head ; 

Sweet  mother,  comfort  his  dear  spirit  now 
With  perfect  calm,  with  long-abiding  rest, 

And  that  love  thou  canst  tend  him, — only  thou  ! 

April,  O  mother  of  all  the  dappled  hours, 
Restorer  of  lost  days,  for  whom  we  long ; 

Bringer  of  seedtime,  of  the  flowers  and  birds ; 

Sower  of  plenty,  of  the  buds  and  showers  ; 
Exalter  of  dumb  hearts  to  the  brink  of  song ; 

Revealer  of  blind  Winter's  runic  words  ! 
Relief  from  losing  strife 

To  him  thou  givest,  and  to  us  regret. 
Wilt  thou  requicken  ever  there  to  life 
Our  dreams  which  troop  across  the  burning  hills, 

Or  on  some  primal  bleak  windlands  forget 

Thy  yearning  children  by  their  woodland  rills  1 


540  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

We  muse  and  muse,  and  never  quite  forego 
The  sure  belief  in  thy  one  home  at  last. 

The  years  may  drive  us  with  dull  toil  and  blind, 

Till  age  bring  down  a  covering  like  snow 
Of  many  winters,  yet  the  pausing  blast 

Hath  rifts  of  quiet,  and  the  frozen  wind 
Zones  of  remindful  peace ; 

Then,  while  some  pale  green  twilight  fades  to  gold, 
There  comes  a  change,  and  we  have  found  release 
In  the  old  way  at  thy  returning  hands. 

Forever  in  thy  care  we  grow  not  old, 
No  barrows  of  the  dead  are  in  thy  lands. 

O  April,  mother  of  desire  and  June, 

Great  angel  of  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 

Thou,  only  thou,  canst  evermore  redeem 

The  world  from  bitter  death,  or  quite  retune 
The  morning  with  low  sound  wherein  all  pain 

Bears  part  with  incommunicable  dream 
And  lisping  undersong, 

Above  thy  wood-banks  of  anemone. 
A  spirit  goes  before  thee,  and  we  long 
In  tears  to  follow  where  thy  windways  roam, — 

Depart  and  traverse  back  the  toiling  sea, 
Nor  weary  any  more  in  alien  home. 

With  what  high  favour  hast  thou  rarely  given 
A  springtime  death  as  thy  bestowal  of  bliss  ! 

On  Avon  once  thy  tending  hands  laid  by 

The  puppet  robes,  the  curtained  scenes  were  riven, 
And  the  great  prompter  smiled  at  thy  long  kiss; 

And  Corydon's  own  master  sleeps  a-nigh 
The  stream  of  Botha's  well, 

Where  thou  didst  bury  him,  thy  dearest  child  ; 
In  one  sweet  year  the  Blessed  Damozel 
Beholds  thee  bring  her  lover,  loved  by  thee, 

Outworn  for  rest,  whom  no  bright  shore  beguiled, 
To  voyage  out  across  the  grey  North  Sea ; 


BLISS  CARMAN.  54 1 

And  slowly^Assabet  takes  on  her  charm, 

Since  him  she  most  did  love  thou  hast  withdrawn 

Beyond  the  wellsprings  of  perpetual  day. 

And  now  'tis  Laleham  :  from  all  noise  and  harm, 
Blithe  and  boy-hearted,  whither  is  he  gone, 

(Like  them  who  fare  in  peace,  knowing  thy  sway 
Is  over  carls  and  kings, 

He  was  too  great  to  cease  to  be  a  child, 

Too  wise  to  be  content  with  childish  things,) 
Having  heard  swing  to  the  twin-leaved  doors  of  gloom, 

Pillared  with  autumn  dust  from  out  the  wild, 
And  carved  upon  with  BEAUTY  and  FOREDOOM  ? 

Awhile  within  the  roaring  iron  house 

He  toiled  to  thrill  the  bitter  dark  with  cheer  ; 

But  ever  the  earlier  prime  wrapped  his  white  soul 

In  sure  and  flawless  welfare  of  repose, 

Kept  like  a  rare  Greek  song  through  many  a  year 

With  Chian  terebinth, — an  illumined  scroll 
No  injury  can  deface. 

And  men  will  toss  his  name  from  sea  to  sea 
Along  the  wintry  dusk  a  little  space, 
Till  thou  return  with  flight  of  swallow  and  sun 

To  weave  for  us  the  rain's  hoar  tracery, 

With  blossom  and  dream  unravelled  and  undone. 


We  joy  in  thy  brief  tarrying,  and  beyond, 

The  vanished  road's  end  lies  engulfed  in  snow, 

Far  on  the  mountains  of  a  bleak  new  morn. 

Craving  the  light,  yet  of  the  dark  more  fond, 
Abhorring  and  desiring  do  we  go, — 

A  cruse  of  tears,  and  love  with  leaven  of  scorn, 
Mingled  for  journeyed  fare  ; 

While  in  the  vision  of  a  harvest  land 

We  see  thy  river  wind,  and  looming  there, 
Death  walk  within  thy  shadow,  proudly  grim, 

A  little  dust  and  sleep  in  his  right  hand, — 
The  withered  windflowers  of  thy  forest  dim. 


542  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 


A   WINDFLOWER. 

BETWEEN  the  roadside  and  the  wood, 
Between  the  dawning  and  the  dew, 

A  tiny  flower  before  the  wind, 
Ephemeral  in  time,  I  grew. 

The  chance  of  straying  feet  came  by, — 
Nor  death  nor  love  nor  any  name 

Known  among  men  in  all  their  lands, — 
"Yet  failure  put  desire  to  shame. 

To-night  can  bring  no  healing  now, 
The  calm  of  yesternight  is  gone ; 

Surely  the  wind  is  but  the  wind, 
And  I  a  broken  waif  thereon. 


How  fair  my  thousand  brothers  wave 
Upon  the  floor  of  God's  abode : 

Whence  came  that  careless  wanderer 
Between  the  wood  side  and  the  road  ! 


A.  H.  CHANDLER. 


THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  CHI- WEE-MOO. 

EACH  morn  I  wake,  each  morn  I  wake, 

I  hear  the  loon  upon  the  lake — 

The  heart  is  full  of  care,  the  heart  is  full  of  care, 

She  cries,  in  notes  of  wild  despair. 


ISABELLA   VALANCY  CRAWFORD.         543 

She,  too,  has  lost,  she,  too,  has  lost — 
Her  breast,  with  mine,  is  tempest-tost — 
A  loving  mate,  a  loving  mate, 
For  whom,  with  me,  she  still  doth  wait. 

Three  moons  ago,  three  moons  ago — 
What  days — what  nights  of  bitter  woe  ! 
They  would  not  stay,  they  would  not  stay — 
From  "  camp  "  and  "  lake  "  both  sped  away. 

White  shone  the  moon,  white  shone  the  inoon — 

Last  night,  again  I  heard  the  loon — 

In  sympathy,  in  sympathy, 

She  poured  her  sorrow  out  to  me. 

The  sun  so  fair,  the  sun  so  fair, 
Shines  on  the  lake ;  and  everywhere 
The.  mated  dove,  the  mated  dove, 
Re-sings  all  day  her  tale  of  love. 

Oh,  Manitou  !  Oh  Manitou  ! 
We  both  forgive  them,  theugh  untrue — 
Farewell !  we  cry — farewell !  we  cry — 
'Tis  our  last  death-song — we  must  die  ! 


ISABELLA  VALANCY  CRAWFORD. 

THE  CANOE. 

MY  masters  twain  made  me  a  bed 
Of  pine-boughs  resinous,  and  cedar, 
Of  moss,  a  soft  and  gentle  breeder 
Of  dreams  of  rest;  and  me  they  spread 
With  furry  skins,  and  laughing  said, 

"  Now  she  shall  lay  her  polished  sides, 
As  queens  do  rest,  or  dainty  brides, 
Our  slender  lady  of  the  tides  !  " 


544  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

My  masters  twain  their  camp-soul  lit, 
Streamed  incense  from  the  hissing  cones, 
Large,  crimson  flashes  grew  and  whirled, 
Thin  golden  nerves  of  sly  light  curled 
Round  the  dun  camp,  and  rose  faint  zones, 
Half  way  about  each  grim  bole  knit, 
Like  a  shy  child  that  would  bedeck 
With  its  soft  clasp  a  Brave's  red  neck; 
Yet  sees  the  rough  shield  on  his  breast, 
The  awful  plumes  shake  on  his  crest, 
And  fearful  drops  his  timid  face, 
Nor  dares  complete  the  sweet  embrace. 

Into  the  hollow  hearts  of  brakes, 

Yet  warm  from  sides  of  does  and  stags, 

Pass'd  to  the  crisp  dark  river  flags; 

Sinuous,  red  as  copper  snakes, 

Sharp-headed  serpents,  made  of  light, 

Gilded  and  hid  themselves  in  night. 

My  masters  twain,  the  slaughtered  deer 

Hung  on  forked  boughs — with  thongs  of  leather, 

Bound  were  his  stiff,  slim  feet  together — 

His  eyes  like  dead  stars  cold  and  drear; 

The  wandering  firelight  drew  near 

And  laid  its  wide  palm,  red  and  anxious, 

On  the  sharp  splendour  of  his  branches; 

On  the  white  foam  grown  hard  and  sere 

On  flank  and  shoulder, 
Death — hard  as  breast  of  granite  boulder, 

And  under  his  lashes 
Peered  thro'  his  eyes  at  his  life's  grey  ashes. 

My  masters  twain  sang  songs  that  wove 
(As  they  burnished  hunting  blade  and  rifle) 
A  golden  thread  with  a  cobweb  trifle — 
Loud  of  the  chase,  and  low  of  love. 

O  Love,  art  thou  a  silver  fish  ? 
Shy  of  the  line  and  shy  of  gaffing, 


ISABELLA   VALANCY  CRAWFORD.          545 

Which  we  do  follow,  fierce,  yet  laughing, 
Casting  at  thee  the  light-wing'd  wish, 
And  at  the  last  shall  we  bring  thee  up 
Frorn  the  crystal  darkness  under  the  cup 

Of  lily  folden 

On  broad  leaves  golden  ? 

"  O  Love  !  art  thou  a  silver  deer, 
Swift  thy  starr'd  feet  as  wing  of  swallow, 
While  we  with  rushing  arrows  follow; 
And  at  the  last  shall  we  draw  near, 
And  over  thy  velvet  neck  cast  thongs — 
Woven  of  roses,  of  stars  of  songs  ? 

New  chains  all  moulden 

Of  rare  gems  olden ! " 

They  hung  the  slaughtered  fish  like  swords 
On  sapling  slender — like  scimitars 
Bright,  and  ruddied  from  new-dead  wars, 
Blazed  in  the  light — the  scaly  hordes. 

They  piled  up  boughs  beneath  the  trees, 
Of  cedar-web  and  green  fir  tassel ; 
Low  did  the  pointed  pine  tops  rustle, 
The  camp  fire  blushed  to  the  tender  breeze. 

The  hounds  laid  dew-laps  on  the  ground, 
With  needles  of  pine  sweet,  soft  and  rusty — 
Dreamed  of  the  dead  stag  stout  and  lusty; 
A  bat  by  the  red  flames  wove  its  round. 

The  darkness  built  its  wigwam  walls 
Close  round  the  camp,  and  at  its  curtain 
Press'd  shapes,  thin  woven  and  uncertain, 
As  white  locks  of  tall  waterfalls. 


546  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

HEREWARD  K.  COCKIN. 
EPITAPH  ON  AN  EARL  Y  SETTLER. 

PAUSE,  pilgrim  footsteps  !  reverently  draw  near, 
The  vanguard  of  a  nation  slumbers  here. 

Mayhap  he  wandered  once  by  Yarrow's  side, 
Or  dreamed  where  Severn  rolls  its  volumed  tide. 

Perchance  his  infant  gaze  first  saw  the  light 
Nigh  lordly  Snowdon's  heaven-ambitioned  height, 

Or  thrilled  his  boyish  heart,  in  bygone  days, 
At  sound  of  stricken  Erin's  mournful  lays. 

Amid  the  crowded  marts  of  Old  World  strife, 
He  yearned  to  breathe  a  purer,  freer  life. 

Brave  heart !     Beyond  Atlantic's  sullen  roar 
He  sought  a  home  on  this  wild  western  shore. 

O 

His  stalwart  might  and  keen,  unerring  aim, 
Taught  lurking  savages  to  dread  his  name. 

In  peril's  midst  he  raised  his  cabin  rude, 
And  lived — his  one  companion,  solitude. 

Yet  not  his  only  one.     Where'er  he  trod 

In  simple  childlike  faith  he  walked  with  God. 

With  quenchless  courage  and  unflinching  toil, 
Redeemed  he  day  by  day  the  crumbling  soil. 


HERE  WARD  K.  COCKIN.  547 

Primeval  woods  beneath  his  sturdy  blows, 
Beamed  forth  in  glebes  that  blossomed  as  the  rose. 

And  years  rolled  by.     Europe  her  exiles  sent, 
Around  him  grew  a  thriving  settlement. 

Yet,  'tis  not  good  for  man  to  live  alone, 
He  wooed  and  won  a  maiden  for  his  own. 

The  flowers  of  June  smiled  on  his  marriage  kiss, 
And  thrice  ten  years  he  tasted  wedded  bliss. 

His  children,  born  'neath  Freedom's  own  roof-tree, 
Were  cradled  in  the  arms  of  Liberty. 

They  lived  to  bless  the  author  of  their  birth, 
And  by  their  deeds  renewed  his  honest  worth. 

His  neighbours  loved  the  kindly,  upright  way, 
Of  one  whose  yea  was  yea,  whose  nay  was  nay. 

And,  did  dispute  arise,  his  word  alone 
Was  jury,  judge  and  verdict  blent  in  one. 

Dark  day  which  saw,  and  gloomier  hearts  which  said 
"The  father  of  the  settlement  is  dead"; 

When  full  of  years,  beloved  on  ev'ry  hand, 
His  spirit  left  them  for  the  Better  Land. 

Tread  softly,  stranger  !  reverently  draw  near, 
The  vanguard  of  a  nation  slumbers  here. 


548  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

JOHN  HUNTER  DUVAR 

[Born  1830.] 

FROM  ENAMORADO. 

As  rolls  a  wave  of  perfume  o'er  the  sea 
From  rosefields  windward,  down  to  us  a-lee, 
In  wave  of  languor  cometh  love  to  me. 

As  all  oppressed  with  sweets  is  July  noon, 

And  leaves  lack  breath,  and  linnets  cease  their  tune, 

In  noontide  heat  of  love  I  faint  and  swoon. 

As  when  the  ardent  sky  grows  overcast, 

And  ill  winds  rave,  and  dips  the  chaloup's  mast, 

I  wake !  the  dream  of  love  hath  drifted  past. 

MAZIAS  (sings). 

Lost  to  my  vision,  yet  within  my  heart 
The  latest  look  of  thine  is  fondly  limned, 
And  though  the  bitter  fate  that  bade  us  part, 
Heard  no  complaint  and  saw  no  eyelid  dimmed, 
My  heart  in  secret  weeps  as  bitter  tear 
As  mother's  wept  above  her  dead  son's  bier. 
More  happy  are  the  dead  who  bid  adieu 
Than  they  whom  the  last  farewell  leaveth  lorn, 
For  the  dead  live  in  form  affection  drew, — 
The  dead  may  not  regret — the  living  mourn, 
So  could  I  claim  the  love  the  living  give, 
For  far  from  thy  dear  love  I  die  yet  live. 


JOHN  HUNTER  DUVAR. 


SONG  FROM  ENAMORADO. 

FLY  out,  O  rosy  banner,  on  the  breeze  ! 
Clash  music  !  in  a  tempest  wild  and  free, 
Ring  out,  O  bells  !  above  the  waving  trees, 
Shine  sun,  earth  smile,  and  add  thy  voice,  O  sea ! 
My  Lady — lady  loves  me. 

Yet  lisping  streams  that  flash  in  currents  strong, 
Hill  echoes  !  founts  that  plashing  purl  and  ream  ! 
Sweet  singing  birds  !  that  twitter  all  day  long 
For  my  wantonness,  be  this  the  theme 
My  Lady — lady  loves  me. 

O  unseen  spirits  !  faery  ministers 
That  swirl  in  summer  cloudland,  and  rejoice 
And  stream  your  flowing  hair,  less  bright  than  hers, 
Join  in  the  chorus  with  your  unheard  voice : 
My  Lady — lady  loves  me  ! 


TWILIGHT  SONG. 

FROM  DE  ROBERVAL. 

THE  mountain  peaks  put  on  their  hoods, 

Good  night ! 

And  the  long  shadows  of  the  woods 
Would  fain  the  landscape  cover  quite, — 
The  timid  pigeons  homeward  fly, 
Scared  by  the  whoop-owl's  eerie  cry, 

Whoo — oop  !  whoo — oop  ! 
As  like  a  fiend  he  flitteth  by; 
The  ox  to  stall,  the  fowl  to  coop, 


550  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

The  old  man  to  his  nightcap  warm, 
Young  men  and  maids  to  slumbers  light,  - 
Sweet  Mary,  keep  our  souls  from  harm  ! 
Good  night !  good  night ! 


BRO  WN  OF  ENGLAND'S  LA  Y. 

THE  villeins  clustered  round  the  bowl 
At  merrie  Yule  to  make  good  cheere, 

And  drank  with  fi-oth  on  beard  and  jowl: 
"  Was-hael  to  the  Thane  ! 
May  never  Breton  taste  our  beer, 
Nor  Dane—" 


Till  the  red  cock  on  the  chimney  crew, 
And  each  man  cried  with  a  mighty  yawn, 

As  the  tapster  one  more  flagon  drew : 
"  To  the  Saxon  land  was-hael ! 
May  we  never  want  for  mast  fed  brawn 
Nor  ale." 

The  Thane  took  up  the  stirrup  cup 
And  blew  off  the  the  reaming  head, 

And  at  one  draught  he  swigged  it  up 
And  smacked  his  lips  and  said: 
"  Was-hael  to  coulter  and  sword  ! 
Was-hael  to  hearth  and  hall, 
To  Saxon  land  and  Saxon  lord 
And  thrall." 


THE  REV.  A.   W.  H.  EATON.  551 

THE  REV.  ARTHUR  WENTWORTH 
HAMILTON  EATON. 

[Born  at  Kentville,  Nova  Scotia.] 

UORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS. 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more 

In  History's  romance, 
The  white  flag  of  the  Bourbons  flew 

From  all  the  gates  of  France. 

And  even  on  these  wild  Western  shores 

Rock-clad  and  forest-mailed, 
The  Bourbon  name,  King  Henry's  fame 

With  "  Vive  le  Roi  "  was  hailed. 

O  "  Vive  le  Roi ! "  and  "  Vive  le  Roi !  " 

Those  wild  adventurous  days 
When  brave  Champlain  and  Poutrincourt 

Explored  the  Acadian  bays. 

When  from  Port  Royal's  rude-built  walls 

Gleamed  o'er  the  hills  afar 
The  golden  lilies  of  the  shield 

Of  Henry  of  Navarre. 

A  gay  and  gallant  company 

Those  voyagers  of  old, 
Whose  life  in  the  Acadian  fort 

Lescarbot's  verse  has  told. 

Their  "  Order  of  Good  Times  "  was  formed 

For  mirth  and  mutual  cheer; 
And  many  a  tale  and  many  a  song 

Beguiled  that  winter  drear. 

Aye,  while  the  snow  lay  softly  o'er 

The  meadows  crisp  and  bare, 
And  hooded  all  the  clustering  hills 

Like  nuns  of  Saint-Hilaire, 


5$2  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Each  day  they  spread  a  goodly  feast 

Not  anywise  too  poor 
For  cafes  of  the  nobles  in 

The  famous  Rue  Aux  Ours. 

And  as  the  old  French  clock  rang  out, 

With  echoes  musical, 
Twelve  silvery  strokes,  the  hour  of  noon, 

Through  the  pine-scented  hall, 

The  Master  of  the  Order  came 

To  serve  each  hungry  guest, 
A  napkin  o'er  his  shoulder  thrown, 

And  flashing  on  his  breast, 

A  collar  decked  with  diamonds, 

Fair  pearls,  turquoises  blue ; 
While  close  behind  in  warrior  dress 

Walked  old  chief  Membertou. 

Then  wine  went  round  and  friends  were  pledged, 

With  gracious  courtesy, 
And  ne'er  was  heard  one  longing  word 

For  France  beyond  the  sea. 

O  days  of  bold  adventure  past; 

O  gay,  adventurous  men, 
Your  "  Order  of  Good  Times  "  I  think 

Shall  ne'er  be  seen  again  ! 


THE  LEGEND  OF  GLOOSCAP. 

BARING  its  breast  to  the  sun  as  of  yore 
Lieth  the  peaceful  Acadian  shore ; 
Fertile  and  fair  in  the  dew  and  the  rain, 
Ripen  its  fields  of  golden  grain. 

Like  a  sabred  sentinel  grim  and  grey 
Blomidon  stands  at  the  head  of  the  Bay, 
And  the  famous  Fundy  tides  at  will 
Sweep  into  Minas  Basin  still. 


THE  REV,  A,   W.  H.  EATON.  553 

From  its  home  in  the  hills  the  Gaspereau 
Sings  as  it  strays  to  the  sea  below, 
Wanders  on  till  it  wakes  in  the  tide 
A  muddy  river,  deep  and  wide. 

Here  at  the  edge  of  the  ancient  wood 
Is  the  spot  where  Basil's  smithy  stood ; 
Close  to  these  clustering  willows  green 
Was  the  home  of  his  love,  Evangeline. 

This  is  the  old  Acadian  shore- 
Prized  by  the  poet  more  and  more 
As  he  lives  in  the  loves  and  hopes,  and  hears 
Silvery  strains  from  the  silent  years. 

Long  ere  the  Frenchmen  drove  away 
The  cruel  tides  from  the  fair  Grand  Pre, 
And  bound  the  dykes  like  emerald  bands 
Round  the  Acadian  meadow  lands, 

The  Micmac  sailed  in  his  birch  canoe 
Over  the  Basin  calm  and  blue. 
With  salmon  spear  to  the  lakeside  crept, 
Then  by  his  wigwam  fire  slept. 

Far  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  gray 
Hunted  the  moose  the  livelong  day; 
While  the  Micmac  mother  crooned  to  her  child 
Forest  folk-songs  weird  and  wild. 

Over  the  tribe  with  jealous  eye 
Watched  the  Great  Spirit  from  on  high ; 
In  the  purple  mists  of  Blomidon 
The  god-man,  Glooscap,  had  his  throne. 

No  matter  how  far  his  feet  might  stray 
From  the  favourite  haunts  of  his  tribe  away, 
The  Micmac's  cry  of  faith  or  fear 
Failed  not  to  find  his  Glooscap's  ear. 

'Twas  he  who  had  made  for  the  Indian's  use 
Beaver  and  bear,  and  sent  the  moose 


554  YO  UNGER  CANADIAN  POE  TS. 

Roaming  over  the  wild  woodlands; 
He  who  had  strewn  upon  the  sands 

Of  the  tide-swept  shore  of  the  stormy  bay 
Amethysts  purple,  and  agates  grey; 
And  into  the  heart  of  love  had  flung 
That  which  keeps  love  ever  young. 

Then  the  Frenchmen  came,  a  thrifty  band, 
Who  felled  the  forest  and  sowed  the  land, 
And  drove  from  their  haunts  by  the  sunny  shore 
Micmac  and  moose  for  evermore. 

And  Glooscap,  the  god-man,  sore  distrest, 
Hid  himself  in  the  unknown  West, 
And  the  Micmac  kindled  his  wigwam  fire 
Far  from  the  grave  of  his  child  and  his  sire, 

Where  now  as  he  weaves  his  basket  gay, 
And  paddles  his  birch  canoe  away, 
He  dreams  of  the  happy  time  for  men 
When  Glooscap  shall  come  to  his  tribe  again. 


THE  RESETTLEMENT  OF  A  CADI  A. 

THE  rocky  slopes  for  emerald  had  changed  their  garb  of 

grey 
When  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing  up  the 

Bay; 
There   were   diamonds   on   every  wave  that  drew  the 

strangers  on, 
And  wreaths  of  wild  arbutus  round  the  brows  of  Blo- 

midon. 

Five  years  in  desolation  the  Acadian  land  had  lain, 

Five  golden  harvest  moons  had  wooed  the  fallow  fields 
in  vain, 

Five  times  the  winter  snows  caressed,  and  summer  sun 
sets  smiled 

On  lonely  clumps  of  willows,  and  fruit  trees  growing  wild. 


THE  REV.  A.   W.  H.  EATON.  555 

There  was  silence  in  the  forest  and  along  the  Minas 

shore, 

And  not  a  habitation  from  Canard  to  Beau  Sejour, 
But  many  a  ruined  cellar,  and  many  a  broken  wall, 
Told  the  story  of  Acadia's  prosperity  and  fall. 

And  even  in  the  sunshine  of  that  peaceful  day  in  June, 
When  Nature  swept  her  harp  and  found  her  strings  in 

perfect  tune, 

The  land  seemed  calling  wildly  for  its  owners  far  away, 
The   exiles    scattered    on   the    coast,    from    Maine   to 

Charleston  Bay; 

Where  with  many  bitter  longings  for  their  fair  homes 

and  their  dead, 
They  bowed  their  heads  in  anguish  and  would  not  be 

comforted ; 

And  like  the  Jewish  exiles,  long  ago,  beyond  the  sea, 
They   could    not    sing   the   songs    of    home,    in    their 

captivity. 

But  the  simple  Norman  peasant-folk  shall  till  the  land 

no  more, 
For  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  have  anchored  by  the 

shore, 
And  many  a  sturdy  Puritan,  his  mind  with  Scripture 

stored, 
Rejoices  he  has  found  at  last,  "the  garden  of  the  Lord." 

There   are   families   from   Tolland,  from   Killingworth 

and  Lyme, 
Gentle   mothers,  tender   maidens,   and   strong  men  in 

their  prime. 
There   are    lovers   who    have   plighted    their   vows   in 

Coventry, 
And  merry  children  dancing  o'er  the  vessels'  decks  in 

glee. 

They  come  as  came  the  Hebrews  into  their  promised  land, 
Not  as  to  wild  New  England's   shores  came  first  the 
Pilgrim  band ; 


556  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

The  Minas  fields  were  fruitful,  and  the  Gaspereau  had 

borne 
To  seaward  many  a  vessel  with  its  freight  of  yellow  corn. 

They  come  with  hearts  as  true  as  are  their  manners 

blunt  and  cold 
To  found  a  race  of  noblemen  of   stern  New  England 

mould, 
A  race  of  ancient  people  whom  the  coining  years  shall 

teach 
The  broader  ways  of  knowledge,  and  the  gentler  forms 

of  speech. 

They  come  as  Puritans,  but  who  shall  say  their  hearts 

are  blind 
To  the  subtle  charms  of  nature,  and  the  love  of  human 

kind? 
The  blue  laws  of  Connecticut  have  shaped  their  thought, 

'tis  true, 
But  human  laws  can  never  wholly  Heaven's  work  undo. 

And  tears  fall  fast  from  many  an  eye,  long  time  unused 

to  weep, 
For  o'er  the  fields  lay  whitening  the  bones  of  cows  and 

sheep, 
The  faithful  cows   that  used   to  feed  upon  the  broad 

Grand  Pre, 
And  with  their  tinkling  bells  comes  slowly  home  at  close 

of  day. 

And  where  the  Acadian  village  stood,  its  roofs  o'ergrown 

with  moss, 
And  the  simple  wooden  chapel,  with  its  altar  and  its 

cross, 
And  where  the  forge  of  Basil  sent  its  sparks  toward  the 

sky, 
The  lonely  thistle  blossomed,  and  the  fire  weed  grew  high. 

The  broken  dykes  have  been  rebuilt,  a  century  and  more, 
The   cornfields   stretch    their  furrows  from    Canard   to 
Beau  Sejour, 


THE  REV.  A.   W.  H.  EATON.  557 

Five  generations  have  been  reared  beside  the  fair  Grand 

Pre, 
Since  the  vessels  from  Connecticut  came  sailing  up  the 

Bay. 

And  now  across  the  meadows,  while  the  farmers  reap 

and  sow, 

The  engine  shrieks  its  discords  to  the  hills  of  Gaspereau, 
And  ever  onward  to  the  sea  the  restless  Fundy  tide 
Bears  playful  pleasure  yachts  and  busy  trade  ships,  side 

by  side. 

And  the  Puritan  has  yielded  to  the  softening  touch  of  time, 

Like  him  who  still  content  remained  in  Killingworth 
and  Lyme, 

And  graceful  homes  of  prosperous  men  make  all  the 
landscape  fair, 

And  mellow  creeds  and  ways  of  life  are  rooted  every 
where. 

And  churches  nestle  lovingly  on  many  a  glad  hill-side, 
And  holy  bells  ring  out  their  music  in  the  eventide; 
But  here  and  there  on  untilled  ground,  apart  from  glebe 

or  town, 
Some  lone,  surviving  apple  tree  stands  leafless,  bare,  and 

brown. 

And  many  a  traveller  has  found,  as  thoughtlessly  he 

strayed, 

Some  long-forgotten  cellar  in  the  deepest  thicket's  shade, 
And  clumps  of  willows  by  the  dykes,  sweet  scented,  fair, 

and  green, 
That  seemed  to  tell  again  the  story  of  Evangeline. 


AT  GRANDMOTHER'S. 

UNDER  the  shade  of  the  poplars  still, 
Lilacs  and  locusts  in  clumps  between, 

Roses  over  the  window-sill, 

Is  the  dear  old  house,  with  its  door  of  green, 
2o 


558  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Never  were  seen  such  spotless  floors, 

Never  such  shining  rows  of  tin, 
While  the  rose-leaf  odours  that  came  thro'  the  doors, 

Told  of  the  peaceful  life  within. 

Here  is  the  room  where  the  children  slept, 
Grandmother's  children  tired  with  play, 

And  the  famous  drawer  where  the  cakes  were  kept, 
Shrewsbury  cookies,  and  carraway. 

The  garden  walks  where  the  children  ran 
To  smell  the  flowers  and  learn  their  names, 

The  children  thought,  since  the  world  began 
Were  never  such  garden  walks  for  games. 

There  were  tulips  and  asters  in  regular  lines, 
Sweet-williams  and  marigolds  on  their  stalks, 

Bachelors'  buttons  and  sweet-pea  vines, 
And  box  that  bordered  the  narrow  walks. 

Pure  white  lilies  stood  cornerwise 

From  sunflowers  yellow  and  poppies  red, 

And  the  summer  pinks  looked  up  in  surprise 
At  the  kingly  hollyhocks  overhead. 

Morning  glories  and  larkspur  stood 

Close  to  the  neighbourly  daffodil; 
Cabbage  roses  and  southernwood 

Roamed  thro'  the  beds  at  their  own  sweet  will. 

Many  a  year  has  passed  since  then, 

Grandmother's  house  is  empty  and  still. 

Grandmother's  babies  have  grown  to  men, 
And  the  roses  grow  wild  o'er  the  window-sill. 

Never  again  shall  the  children  meet 

Under  the  poplars  grey  and  tall, 
Never  again  shall  the  careless  feet 

Dance  thro'  the  rose-leaf  scented  hall. 

Grandmother's  welcome  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  children  are  scattered  far  and  wide, 


THE  REV.  A.   W.  H.  EATON.  559 

And  the  world  is  a  larger  place  than  of  yore, 
But  hallowed  memories  still  abide. 

And  the  children  are  better  men  to-day 

For  the  cakes  and  rose-leaves  and  garden  walks, 

And  grandmother's  welcome  so  far  away, 
And  the  old  sweet-williams  on  their  stalks. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  SLEEP. 

To  sleep  I  give  myself  away, 

Unclasp  the  fetters  of  the  mind, 

Forget  the  sorrows  of  the  day, 
The  burdens  of  the  heart  unbind. 

With  empty  sail  this  tired  bark 

-  Drifts  out  upon  the  sea  of  rest, 
While  all  the  shore  behind  grows  dark 
And  silence  reigns  from  east  to  west. 

At  last  awakes  the  hidden  breeze 

That  bears  me  to  the  land  of  dreams, 

Where  music  sighs  among  the  trees, 
And  murmurs  in  the  winding  streams. 

O  weary  day,  O  weary  day, 

That  dawns  in  fear  and  ends  in  strife, 
That  brings  no  cooling  draught  to  allay 

The  burning  fever-thirst  of  life. 

O  sacred  night  when  angel  hands 
Are  pressed  upon  the  tired  brow, 

And  when  the  soul  on  shining  sands 
Descends  with  angels  from  the  prow. 

To  sleep  I  give  myself  away, 

My  heart  forgets  its  vague  unrest, 

And  all  the  clamour  of  the  day, 
And  drifts  toward  the  quiet  west, 


$6o  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 


THE   WHALING  TOWN. 

ADZE  and  hammer  and  anvil  stroke 

Echo  not  qn  the  shore, 
The  wharves  are  crumbling,  old,  and  grey, 

And  the  whale  ships  come  no  more. 

Grass  grows  thick  in  the  empty  streets, 
And  moss  o'er  the  blackened  roofs, 

And  the  people  are  roused  to  wonderment 
At  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs. 

There's  not  a  woman  in  all  the  town 

But  keeps  in  memory 
The  face  of  a  husband,  a  lover,  a  friend 

Lost,  she  says,  at  sea. 

Lost  in  the  days  when  in  every  storm 

Some  well-known  ship  went  down, 
And  mothers  wept  and  fathers  prayed 

In  the  little  whaling  town. 

When  every  sail  the  children  spied 

As  they  tossed  the  shining  sand, 
Came  from  the  storehouse  of  the  sea 

With  light  for  aU  the  land. 

And  still  to  the  edge  of  the  rotting  wharves 

The  tides  from  day  to  day 
Come  with  an  eager  wish  to  bear 

The  whaling  ships  away. 

And  many  an  aged  mariner  looks 

Across  the  sparkling  sea, 
And  dreams  that  the  waves  with  sails  are  flecked 

As  of  old  they  used  to  be. 


THE  REV.  A.   IV.  H.  EATON.  561 

FLOOD  TIDE. 

THE  tide  came  up  as  the  sun  went  down, 
And  the  river  was  full  to  its  very  brim, 

And  a  little  boat  crept  up  to  the  town 
On  the  muddy  wave,  in  the  morning  dim. 

But  that  little  boat  with  its  reed-like  oar 

Brought  news  to  the  town  that  made  it  weep, 

And  the  people  were  never  so  gay  as  before, 
And  they  never  slept  so  sound  a  sleep. 

News  of  a  wreck  that  the  boatman  had  seen 
Off  in  the  bay,  in  a  fierce,  wild  gale ; 

Common  enough,  such  things,  I  ween, 

Yet  the  women  cried  and  the  men  were  pale. 

Strange  that  a  little  boat  could  bring 

Tidings  to  plunge  a  town  in  tears  ! 
Strange  how  often  some  small  thing 

May  shatter  and  shiver  the  hope  of  years. 

O,  none  but  the  angel  with  silver  wings 

That  broods  o'er  the  river  and  guards  the  town, 

Heeds  half  of  the  woe  each  evening  brings, 
As  the  tide  comes  up,  and  the  sun  goes  down. 


LOVE-LETTERS. 

WHO  keeps  not  somewhere  safely  stored  away, 
Like  jewels  in  a  casket  quaint,  from  view, 
A  bundle  of  love-letters,  old  or  new, 

Yellow  with  age,  or  fresh  as  buds  of  May. 

Who,  sometimes,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 

With  stealthy  fingers  does  not  draw  them  forth, 
Dear,  tender  treasures,  not  of  common  worth, 

And  live  the  old  love  o'er  that  suffered  blight. 


562  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS, 

Yes,  here  are  mine,  not  faded  yet  with  years ; 
Sometimes  I' laugh  at  the  old  tender  flame 
That  kindled  them,  but  is  it  any  shame 

To  whisper  they  are  wet,  to-night,  with  tears. 

What  strange,  persistent  power  love  has  to  hold 
Its  life,  though  all  its  ashes  have  grown  cold. 


SOMETIME. 

SOMETIME,  sometime, 
The  clouds  of  ignorance  shall  part  asunder, 

And  we  shall  see  the  fair,  blue  sky  of  truth 
Spangled  with  stars,  and  look  with  joy  and  wonder 
Up  to  the  happy  dream-lands  of  our  youth, 
Where  we  may  climb. 

Sometime,  sometime, 
The  passion  of  the  heart  we  keep  dissembling 

Shall  free  herself,  and  rise  on  silver  wing, 
And  all  these  broken  chords  of  music,  trembling 
Deep  in  the  soul,  our  lips  shall  learn  to  sing, 
A  strain  sublime. 

Sometime,  sometime, 
Love's  broken  links  shall  all  be  reunited, 
But  not  upon  the  ashy  forge  of  pain ; 
The  full-blown  roses  dead,  the  sweet  buds  blighted 
Shall  bloom  beside  life's  garden  walks  again, 
In  fairer  clime. 

Sometime,  sometime, 
The  prophet's  unsealed  lips  shall  straight  deliver 

The  message  of  eternal  life  uncursed ; 
Wind-swept,  the  poet's  heaven-tuned  soul  shall  quiver, 
And  from  his  trembling  lyre  at  length  shall  burst 
Immortal  rhyme. 


LOUIS  FRECHETTE.  563 

LOUIS  FRECHETTE. 

[Crowned  laureate  by  the  French  Academy.] 

"  SAINT-MALO." 

Voici  Fapre  Ocean. 

La  houle  vient  lecher 
Les  sables  de  la  greve  et  le  pied  du  rocher 
Oft  Saint-Malo,  qu'un  bloc  de  sombres  tours  crenelle, 
Semble  veiller,  debout  comme  une  sentinelle. 
Sur  les  grands  plateaux  verts,  1'air  est  tout  embaume 
Des  aromes  nouveaux  que  le  souffle  de  mai 
Mele  a  1'acre  senteur  des  pins  et  des  melezes 
Ou'on  voit  dans  le  lointain  penches  sur  les  falaises. 
Le  soleil  verse  un  not  de  rayons  printaniers 
Sur  les  toits  de  la  ville  et  sur  les  blancs  hunieis 
Qui  s'ouvrent  dans  le  port,  prets  a  quitter  la  c6te. 
C'est  un  jour  solennel,  jour  de  la  Pentecdte. 

La  cathedrale  a  mis  ses  habits  les  plus  beaux; 
Sur  les  autels  de  marbre  un  essaim  de  flambeaux 
Lutte  dans  1'ombre  uvec  les  splendeurs  irise'es 
Des  grands  traits  lumineux  qui  tombent  des  croise'es. 

Agenouille  tout  pres  des  balustres  benits, 

Un  groupe  de  marins  que  le  hale  a  brunis, 

Devant  le  Dieu  qui  fait  le  calme  et  la  tempe"te, 

Dans  le  recueillement  prie  en  courbaut  la  te"te. 

Un  homme  au  front  serein,  au  port  ferme  et  vaillant, 

Calme  comme  un  heros,  fier  comme  un  Castillan, 

L'allure  male  et  1'oeil  a  vide  d'aventure, 

Domine  chacun  d'eux  par  sa  haute  stature. 

C'est  Cartier,  c'est  le  chef  par  la  France  indique; 

C'est  1'apotre  nouveau  par  le  destin  marque 

Pour  aller,  en  depit  de  1'ocean  qui  gronde, 

Porter  le  verbe  saint  a  1'autre  bout  du  monde. 

Un  dclair  brille  au  front  de  ce  predestine". 

Soudain,  du  sanctuaire  un  signal  est  donne, 


564  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Et,  sous  les  vastes  nefs  pendant  que  1'orgue  roule 
Son  accord  grandiose  et  sonore,  la  foule 
Se  leve,  et,  delirante,  en  un  cri  de  stentor, 
Entonne  en  fremissant  le  "  Veni,  Creator  ".   .  . 

De  quels  mots  vous  peindrais-je,  6  spectacle  sublime  ? 
Jamais,  aux  jours  sacr^s,  des  parvis  de  Solime, 
Chant  terrestre,  qu'un  choeur  eternel  acheva 
Ne  monta  plus  sincere  aux  pieds  de  Jehova.  .  . 

L'e"motion  saisit  la  foule  tout  entiere, 

Quand,  du  haut  de  1'autel,  1'homme  de  la  priere, 

Emu,  laissa  tomber  ces  paroles  d'adieu  : 

— Vaillants  chre'tiens,  allez  sous  la  garde  de  Dieu.  .  . 

O  mon  pays,  ce  fut  dans  cette  aube  de  gloire 
Que  s'ouvrit  le  premier  feuillet  de  ton  histoire. — 
Trois  jours  apres,  du  haut  de  ses  machecoulis 
Par  le  fer  et  le  feu  mainte  fois  demolis, 
Saint-Malo  regardait,  fendant  la  vague  molle, 
Trois  voiliers  qui  doublaient  la  pointe  de  son  mole, 
Et,  dans  les  reflets  d'or  d'un  beau  soleil  levant, 
Gagnaient  la  haute  mer  toutes  voiles  au  vent. 

Le  carillon  mugit  dans  les  tours  e"branlees ; 

Du  haut  des  bastions  en  bruy antes  volees, 

Le  canon  fait  gronder  ses  tonnantes  rumeurs; 

Et,  salues  de  loin  par  vingt  mille  clameurs, 

Au  bruit  de  1'airain  sourd  et  du  bronze  qui  fume, 

Cartier  et  ses  vaisseaux  s'enfoncent  dans  la  brume  . 


" LE  DR APE 'AU  ANGLAIS." 

REGARDE,  ne  disait  mon  pere, 
Ce  drapeau  vaillamment  porte  ; 
II  a  fait  ton  pays  prospere, 
Et  respecte  ta  liberte". 

C'est  le  drapeau  de  1'Angleterre ; 
Sans  tache,  sur  le  fismament, 


LOUIS  FRECHETTE.  565 

Presque  a  tous  les  points  de  la  terre 
II  flotte  glorieusement. 

Oui,  sur  un  huitieme  du  globe 
C'est  1'etendard  officiel ; 
Mais  le  coin  d'azur  qu'il  derobe 
Nulle  part  n'obscurcit  le  ciel. 

II  brille  sur  tous  les  rivages ; 

II  a  seme  tous  les  progres 

Au  bont  des  mers  les  plus  sauvages 

Comme  aux  plus  lointaines  forets. 

Laissaut  partout  sa  fiere  empreinte, 
Aux  plus  feroces  nations 
II  a  porte  la  flamme  sainte 
De  nos  civilisations. 

-Devant  1'esprit  humain  en  marche 
Mainte  fois  son  pli  rayonna, 
Comme  la  colombe  de  1'arche, 
Ou  comme  1'ecleir  du  Sina. 

Longtemps  ce  glorieux  insigne 
De  notre  gloire  fut  jaloux, 
Comme  s'il  se  fut  cru  seul  digne 
De  marcher  de  pair  avec  nous. 

Avec  lui,  dans  bien  des  batailles, 
Sur  tous  les  points  de  1'univers, 
Nous  avons  mesure  nos  tailles 
Avec  des  resultats  divers. 

Un  jour,  notre  banniere  auguste 
Devant  lui  dut  se  replier; 
Mais  alors  s'il  nous  fut  injuste, 
II  a  su  le  faire  oublier. 

Et  si  maintenant  son  pli  vibre 
A  nos  remparts  jadis  gaulois, 
C'est  au  moins  sur  un  peuple  libre 
Qui  n'a  rien  perdu  de  ses  droits, 


566  YQUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Oublions  les  jours  de  tern  petes; 
Et,  raon  enfant,  puisque  aujourd'hui 
Ce  drapeau  flotte  sur  nos  tetes, 
II  faut  s'incliner  devant  lui. 

— Mais,  pere,  pardonnez  si  j'ose  .  .  . 
N'en  est-il  pas  un  autre  a  nous  1  .  .  . 
— Ah  .  .  .  celui-la,  c'est  autre  chose  : 
II  faut  le  baiser  a  genoux.  .  . 


"LA  DECOUVERTE  DU  MISSISSIPL" 
i. 

LE  grand  fleuve  dormait  couche  dans  la  savane. 
Dans  les  lointains  brumeux  passaient  en  caravane 
De  farouches  troupeaux  d'elans  et  de  bisons. 
Drape  dans  les  rayons  de  1'aube  matinale, 
Le  desert  deployait  sa  splendeur  virgin  ale 
Sur  d'insondables  horizons. 

Juin  brillait.     Sur  les  eaux,  dans  1'herbe  des  pelouses, 
Sur  les  sommets,  au  fond  des  profondeurs  jalouses, 
L'ete  fecond  cliantait  ses  sauvages  amours. 
Du  sud  a  1'aquilon,  du  couchant  a  1'aurore, 
Toute  1'Lmmensite  semblait  garder  encore 
La  majest^  des  premiers  jours. 

Travail  mysterieux  ...  les  rochers  aux  fronts  chauves, 
Les  pampas,  les  bayous,  les  bois,  les  antres  fauves, 
Tout  semblait  tressaillir  sous  un  souffle  effre'ne; 
On  sentait  palpiter  les  solitudes  mornes, 
Comme  au  jour  ou  vibra  das  1'espace  sans  bornes, 
L'hymne  du  monde  nouveau-ne. 

L'Inconnu  tr6nait  la  dans  sa  grandeur  premiere. 
Splendide  et  tachete  d'ombres  et  de  lumiere, 
Comme  un  reptile  immense  au  soleil  engourdi, 
Le  vieux  Meschacebe,  vierge  encor  de  servage, 
Deployait  ses  anneaux  de  rivage  en  rivage 
Jusques  aux  golfes  du  Midi. 


LOUIS  FRECHETTE.  567 

Echarpe  de  Titan  sur  le  globe  enroulee, 
Le  grand  fleuve  epanchait  sa  nappe  immaculee 
Des  regions  de  1'Ourse  aux  plages  d'Orion, 
Baignant  le  steppe  aride  et  les  bosquets  d'orange, 
Et  mariant  ainsi  dans  un  hymen  etrange 
L'equateur  au  septentrion. 

Fier  de  sa  liberte,  fier  de  ses  flots  sans  nombre, 
Fier  des  bois  te"nebreux  qui  lui  versent  leur  ombre, 
Le  Roi-des-eaux  n'avait  encore,  en  aucun  lieu 
Ou  1'avait  promene  sa  course  vagabonde, 
Depose  le  tribut  de  sa  vague  profonde, 
Que  devant  le  soleil  et  Dieu  ... 

n. 

Jolliet  .   .  .  Jolliet  .   .   .  quel  spectacle  feerique 
Dut  frapper  ton  regard,  quand  ta  nef  historique 
Bondit  sur  les  flots  d'or  du  grand  fleuve  inconnu  .  .   . 
Quel  sourire  d'orgueil  dut  effleurer  ta  levre  1  .  .  . 
Quel  eclair  triomphant,  a  cet  instant  de  fievre, 
Dut  resplendir  sur  ton  front  nu  1  .   .  . 

Le  voyez-vous  la-bas,  debout  comme  un  prophete, 
L'oeil  tout  illumine  d'audace  satisfaite, 
La  main  tendue  au  loin  vers  1'Occident  bronze, 
Penclre  possession  de  ce  domaine  immense, 
Au  nom  du  Dieu  vivant,  au  nom  du  roi  de  France, 
Et  du  monde  civilise  ?  .  .   . 

Puis,  berce  par  la  houle,  et  berce  par  ses  reves, 
L'oreille  ouverte  aux  bruits  harmonieux  des  greves, 
Humant  1'acre  parfum  des  grands  bois  odorants, 
Rasant  les  ilots  verts  et  les  dunes  d'opale, 
De  meandre  en  meandre,  au  fil  de  1'onde  pale, 
Suivre  le  cours  des  flots  errants  .  .  . 

A  son  aspect,  du  sein  des  flottantes  ramures, 
Montait  comme  un  concert  de  chants  et  de  murmures; 
Des  vols  d'oiseaux  marins  s'elevaient  des  roseaux, 
Et,  pour  montrer  la  route  a  la  pirogue  frele, 


568  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

S'enf uyaient  en  avant,  trainant  leur  ombre  grele 
Dans  le  pli  lumineux  des  eaux. 

Et,  pencLnt  qu'il  allait  voguant  a  la  derive, 
On  aurait  dit  qu'au  loin,  les  arbres  de  la  rive, 
En  arceaux  parfumes  penches  sur  son  chemin, 
Saluaient  le  he"ros  dont  1'energique  audace 
Venait  d'inscrire  encor  le  nom  de  notre  race 
Aux  fastes  de  1'esprit  humain. 

III. 

O  grand  Meschacebe  .  .   .  voyageur  taciturne, 
Bien  des  fois,  au  rayon  de  1'etoile  nocturne, 
Sur  tes  bords  endormis  je  suis  venu  m'asseoir; 
Et  la,  seul  et  reveur,  perdu  sous  les  grands  ormes, 
J'ai  souvent  du  regard  suivi  d'etranges  formes 
Giissant  dans  les  brumes  du  soir. 

Tant6t  je  croyais  voir,  sous  les  vertes  arcades, 
Du  fatal  De  Soto  passer  les  cavalcades 
En  jetant  au  desert  un  defi  solennel; 
Tant6t  c'etait  Marquette  errant  dans  la  prairie, 
Impatient  d'offrir  un  monde  a  sa  patrie, 
Et  des  ames  a  1'Eternel. 

Parfois,  sous  les  taillis,  ma  prunelle  trompee 
Croyait  voir  de  La  Salle  etinceler  1'epee, 
Et  parfois,  groupe  informe  allant  je  ne  sais  ou, 
Devant  une  humble  croix — 6  puissance  magique  . 
De  farouches  guerriers  a  1'oeil  sombre  et  tragique 
Passer  en  pliant  le  genou. 

Et  puis,  bezant  mon  ame  aux  reves  des  poetes, 
J'entrevoyais  aussi  de  blanches  silhouettes, 
Doux  fantomes  flottants  dans  le  vague  des  nuits 
Atala,  Gabriel,  Chactas,  Evangeline, 
Et  1'ombre  de  Rene,  debout  sur  la  colline, 
Pleurant  ses  immortels  ennuis. 

Et  j'endormais  ainsi  mes  souvenirs  mososes.  , 
Mais  de  ces  visions  poetiques  et  roses 


LOUIS  FRECHETTE.  569 

Celle  qui  plus  souvent  venait  frapper  mon  oeil, 
C'etait,  passant  au  loin  dans  un  reflet  de  gloire, 
Ce  hardi  pionnier  dont  notre  jeune  histoire 
Redit  le  nom  avec  orgueil. 

IV. 

Jolliet  .  .   .  Jolliet  .  .  .  deux  siecles  de  conqu£tes, 
Deux  siecles  sans  rivaux  ont  passe  sur  nos  tetes, 
Depuis  Fheure  sublime  ou,  de  ta  propre  main, 
Tu  jetas  d'un  seul  trait  sur  la  carte  du  monde 
Ces  vastes  regions,  zone  immense  et  feconde, 
Futur  grenier  du  genre  humain  .  .  . 

Deux  siecles  ont  passe  depuis  que  ton  genie 
Nousfraya  le  chemin  de  la  terre  benie 
Que  Dieu  fit  avec  tant  de  prodigalite; 
Qu'elle  garde  toujours  dans  les  plis.de  sa  robe, 
Pour  les  desherites  de  tous  les  points  du  globe, 
Du  pain  avec  la  liberte. 

Oui,  deux  siecles  ont  fui  .   .  .  La  solitude  vierge 
N'est  plus  la.     Du  progres  le  not  montant  submerge 
Les  vestiges  derniers  d'un  passe  qui  finit. 
Ou  le  desert  dormait  grandit  la  metropole; 
Et  le  fleuve  asservi  courbe  sa  large  epaule 
Sous  1'arche  aux  piles  de  granit. 

Plus  de  fore"ts  sans  fin :  la  vapeur  les  sillonne. 
L'aster  des  jours  nouveaux  sur  tous  les  points  rayonne; 
L'enfant  de  la  nature  est  evangelise; 
Le  soc  du  laboureur  fertilise  la  plaine; 
Et  le  surplus  dore  se  sa  gerbe  trop  pleine 
Nourrit  le  vieux  monde  epuise  .  .  . 

v. 

Des  plus  purs  devouments  merveilleuse  semence, 
Qui  de  vous  eut  jamais  reve  cette  oeuvre  immense, 
O  Jolliet,  et  vous,  apotees  ingenus, 


570  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Vaillants  soldats  de  Dieu,  sans  orgueil  et  sans  crainte, 
Qui  portiez  le  flambeau  de  la  verite  sainte 
Dans  ces  parages  inconnus  ? 

Des  volonte*s  du  ciel  executeurs  dociles, 
Vous  futes  les  jalons  qui  rendent  plus  faciles 
Les  durs  sentiers  ou  doit  marcher  1'humanite  .   .  . 
Gloire  a  vous  tous  !  .  .  .  du  temps  f  ranchissant  les  abimes 
Vos  noms  environnes  d'aureoles  sublimes 
Iront  a  1'immortalite. 

Et  toi  de  ces  he*ros,  gene"reuse  patrie, 

Sol  canadien  que  j'aime  evec  idolatrie, 

Dans  1'accomplissment  de  tous  ces  grands  travaux, 

Quand  je  pese  la  part  que  le  ciel  t'a  donnee, 

Les  yeux  sur  1'avenir,  terre  predestinee, 

J'ai  foi  dans  tes  destins  nouveaux  .  .  . 


JAMES  HANNAY. 
A  BALLAD  OF  PORT  ROYAL. 

FAIR  is  Port  Royal  river 

In  the  Acadian  land; 
It  flows  through  verdant  meadows, 

Wide  spread  on  either  hand; 
Through  orchards  and  through  corn  fields 

Ifc  gaily  holds  its  way, 
And  past  the  ancient  ramparts, 

Long  fallen  to  decay. 

Peace  reigns  within  the  valley, 

Peace  on  the  mountain  side, 
In  hamlet  and  in  cottage, 

And  on  Port  Royal's  tide ; 
In  peace  the  ruddy  farmer 

Reaps  from  its  fertile  fields; 
In  peace  the  fisher  gathers 

The  spoils  its  basin  yields. 


JAMES  HAN  NAY.  571 

Yet  this  sweet  vale  has  echoed 

To  many  a  warlike  note, 
The  strife  compelling  bugle, 

The  cannon's  iron  throatn 
The  wall  piece  and  the  mnsket 

Have  joined  in  chorus  there, 
To  fill  with  horrid  clangour 

The  balmy  morning  air. 

And  many  a  gallant  war  fleet, 

Has  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Lain  in  that  noble  basin, 

And  flouted  in  the  sky 
A  flag  with  haughty  challenge 

To  the  now  ruined  hold, 
Which  i-eared  its  lofty  ramparts, 

In  the  warlike  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  early  spring  time, 

When  farmers  plough  their  fields, 
Full  many  a  warlike  weapon, 

The  peaceful  furrow  yields  : 
The  balls  of  mighty  cannon 

Crop  from  the  fruitful  soil, 
And  many  a  rusted  sword  blade, 

Once  red  with  martial  toil. 

Three  hundred  years  save  thirty 

Have  been  and  passed  away 
Since  bold  Champlain  was  wafted 

To  fair  Port  Royal  Bay  : 
And  there  he  built  a  fortress, 

With  palisadoes  tall, 
Well  flanked  by  many  a  bastion, 

To  guard  its  outward  wall. 

Here  was  the  germ  of  Empire, 

The  cradle  of  a  state, 
In  future  ages  destined 

To  stand  amon£  the  great 


572  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Then  hail  to  old  Port  Royal ! 

Although  thy  ramparts  fall, 
Canadian  towns  shall  greet  thee 

The  mother  of  them  all. 


SOPHIE  M.  HENSLEY. 
TRIUMPH. 

THE  sky,  grown  dull  through  many  waiting  days, 
Flashed  into  crimson  with  the  sunrise  charm, 
So  all  my  love,  aroused  to  vague  alarm, 

Flushed  into  fire  and  burned  with  eager  blaze. 

I  saw  thee  not  as  suppliant,  with  still  gaze 

Of  pleading,  but  as  victor, — and  thine  arm 
Gathered  me  fast  into  embraces  warm, 

And  I  was  taught  the  light  of  Love's  dear  ways. 

This  day  of  triumph  is  no  longer  thine, 

Oh  conqueror,  in  calm  exclusive  power. — 
As  evermore,  through  storm,  and  shade,  and  shine, 

Your  woe  my  pain,  your  joy  my  ecstasy, 
We  breathe  together, — so  this  blessed  hour 
Of  self-surrender  makes  my  jubilee' 


THERE  IS  NO  GOD. 

THERE  is  no  God  !     If  one  should  stand  at  noon 

Where  the  glow  rests,  and  the  warm  sunlight  plays, 
Where  earth  is  gladdened  by  the  cordial  rays 

And  blossoms  answering,  where  the  calm  lagoon 

Gives  back  the  brightness  of  the  heart  of  June, 

And  he  should  say:  "There  is  no  sun" — the  day's 
Fair  show  still  round  him, — should  we  lose  the  blaze 

And  warmth,  and  weep  that  day  has  gone  so  soon 


MA  TTHE  W  RICHE  Y  KNIGHT.  573 

Nay,  there  would  be  one  word,  one  only  thought, 

"  The  man  is  blind  !  "  and  throbs  of  pitying  scorn 
Would  rouse  the  heart,  and  stir  the  wondering 

mind. 

We  feel,  and  see,  and  therefore  know, — the  morn 
With  blush  of  youth  ne'er  left  us  till  it  brought 

Promise  of  full-grown  day.     "  The  man  is  blind!" 


MATTHEW  RICHEY  KNIGHT. 
DREAM  AND  DEED. 

WHATE'ER  I  do,  where'er  I  go, 

There's  one  that  goes  before; 
How  deep  soe'er  the  truths  I  know, 

That  other  knoweth  more. 

Full  stronger  than  my  utmost  strength, 

Full  better  than  my  best, — 
Though  dark  my  aim,  whate'er  its  length, 

He  leadeth  in  the  quest. 

I  find  the  traces  of  his  flight; 

I  hear  the  distant  wing ; 
He  never  looms  in  very  sight ; 

My  winter  in  his  spring. 

I  touch  the  verge  of  art  or  ken, 

And  he  is  in  its  core ; 
I  reach  its  centre  too,  and  then 

He  speedeth  on  before. 


A  SONG  OF  FAILURE. 

THE  weary  hand  I  sing  and  heart, 

That  never  poet  sang ; 
The  silent  song,  the  buried  art, 

The  unknown  martyr's  pang. 

A  thousand  pseans  noise  the  deeds 
Of  men  who  fought  and  won  ; 


574  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

I  sing  the  hero  masked  in  weeds, 
And  shrinking  from  the  sun. 

He  fought  as  good  and  brave  a  fight 

As  ever  mortal  fought ; 
His  eye  was  keen,  his  cause  was  right,  - 

And  all  availed  naught. 

I  sing  the  men  who  did  the  right 
When  wrong  was  on  the  throne, 

And  fearless  in  a  world's  despite, 
Stood  for  the  truth  alone ; 

The  men  that  builded  for  all  time 

In  unobserved  ways, 
Self-pois'ed  in  their  aim  sublime, 

Nor  craved  a  people's  praise. 

For  they  who  rose  in  favouring  hour 
And  fashioned  all  things  new, 

Expressed  a  silent,  living  power 
That  through  long  ages  grew : 

And  they  who  hewed  the  solid  stone 
On  which  the  temple  stands, 

We  know  them  not — we  have  alone 
The  labour  of  their  hands. 

I  sing  the  bard  whose  glory  earned 
Was  lost  'mid  war  and  lust : 

And  him  who  died  ere  he  had  learned 
His  hidden  powers  to  trust : 

The  poet  who  could  ne'er  express 
The  notes  that  through  him  rang, 

For  songs  are  in  the  silences 
Sweeter  than  bard  e'er  sang. 

I  sing  the  hand  that  lost  the  prize ; 

The  hope  that  died  too  soon ; 
The  sons  of  spring  whose  gentle  eyes 

Ne'er  saw  the  flowers  of  June. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN.  575 

The  grief  that  never  spake,  I  sing; 

The  strong  love  never  told  ; 
The  victories  of  suffering ; 

The  heart  in  youth  grown  old. 

Tell  me  not  he  who  fails  will  miss 

The  guerdon  of  his  aim  : 
The  life  that  crowns  the  hope  of  this 

Will  meet  the  soul's  just  claim. 

A  voice  I  hear. — They  only  win 

Who,  brave  and  pure  and  true, 
Discrown  the  foe  that  reigns  within, 

And  self  and  sin  subdue. 

When  every  mask  is  torn  from  men, 

Who  earned  the  day's  success 
May  still  have  failed — the  hero  then 

Rise  from  the  wilderness. 

In  the  new  light  of  that  far  day 

How  sad  our  praise  will  seem, 
When  they  who  fell  in  many  a  fray 

Shall  near  the  throne  supreme. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN. 

[Born  November  1861.] 

HEAT. 

FROM  plains  that  reel  to  southward,  dim, 

The  road  runs  by  me  white  and  bare  ; 
Up  the  steep  hill  it  seems  to  swim 

Beyond,  and  melt  into  the  glare  ; 
Upward  half  way,  or  it  may  be 

Nearer  the  summit  slowly  steals 
A  hay-cart  moving  dustily 

With  idly  clacking  wheels. 

By  his  cart's  side  the  waggoner 
Is  slouching  slowly  at  his  ease, 

Half-hidden  in  the  windless  blur 
Of  white  dust  puffing  to  his  knees, 


576  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

This  waggon  on  the  height  above, 
From  sky  to  sky  on  either  hand, 

Is  the  sole  thing  that  seems  to  move 
In  all  the  heat-held  land. 

Beyond  me  in  the  fields  the  sun 

Soaks  in  the  grass  and  hath  his  will ; 
I  count  the  marguerites  one  by  one ; 

Even  the  buttercups  are  still. 
On  the  brook  yonder  not  a  breath 

Disturbs  the  spider  or  the  midge. 
The  water-bugs  draw  close  beneath 

The  cool  gloom  of  the  bridge. 

Where  the  far  elm-tree  shadows  flood 

Dark  patches  in  the  burning  grass, 
The  cows,  each  with  her  peaceful  cud, 

Lie  waiting  for  the  heat  to  pass. 
From  somewhere  on  the  slope  near  by 

Into  the  pale  depth  of  the  noon 
A  wandering  thrush  slides  leisurely 

His  thin  revolving  tune. 

In  intervals  of  dreams  I  hear 

The  cricket  from  the  droughty  ground  ; 
The  grasshoppers  spin  into  ruine  ear 

A  small  innumerable  sound. 
I  lift  mine  eyes  sometimes  to  gaze, 

The  burning  sky-line  blinds  my  sight ; 
The  woods  far  off  are  blue  with  haze ; 

The  hills  are  drenched  in  light. 

And  yet  to  me  not  this  or  that 

Is  always  sharp  or  always  sweet ; 
In  the  sloped  shadow  of  my  hat 

I  lean  at  rest,  and  drain  the  heat ; 
Nay  more,  I  think  some  blessed  power 

Hath  brought  me  wandering  idly  here : 
In  the  full  furnace  of  this  hour 

My  thoughts  grow  keen  and  clear. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMP  MAN.  577 

BETWEEN  THE  RAPIDS. 

THE  point  is  turned ;  the  twilight  shadow  fills 

The  wheeling  stream,  the  soft  receding  shore, 
And  on  our  ears  from  deep  among  the  hills 

Breaks  now  the  rapid's  sudden  quickening  roar. 
And  yet  the  same,  or  have  they  changed  their  face, 

The  fair  green  fields,  and  can  it  still  be  seen, 
The  white  log  cottage  near  the  mountain's  base, 

So  bright  and  quiet,  so  home-like  and  serene? 
Ah,  well  I  question,  for  as  five  years  go, 
How  many  blessings  fall,  and  how  much  woe. 

Aye  there  they  are  nor  have  they  changed  their  cheer, 

The  fields,  the  hut,  the  leafy  mountain  brows ; 
Across  the  lonely  dusk  again  I  hear 

The  loitering  bells,  the  lowing  of  the  cows, 
The  bleat  of  many  sheep,  the  stilly  rush 

Of  the  low  whispering  river,  and  through  all, 
Soft  human  tongues  that  break  the  deepening  hush 

With  faint-heard  song  or  desultory  call ; 
Oh  comrades  hold ;  the  longest  reach  is  past ; 
The  stream  runs  swift,  and  we  are  flying  fast. 

The  shore,  the  fields,  the  cottage  just  the  same, 

But  how  with  them  whose  memory  makes  them  sweet  1 
Oh  if  I  called  them,  hailing  name  by  name, 

Would  the  same  lips  the  same  old  shouts  repeat  1 
Have  the  rough  years,  so  big  with  death  and  ill, 

Gone  lightly  by  and  left  them  smiling  yet  ? 
Wild  black-eyed  Jeanne  whose  tongue  was  never  still, 

Old  wrinkled  Picaud,  Pierre  and  pale  Lisette, 
The  homely  hearts  that  never  cared  to  range, 
While  life's  wide  fields  were  filled  with  rush  and  change. 

And  where  is  Jacques,  and  where  is  Verginie  ? 

I  cannot  tell ;  the  fields  are  all  a  blur. 
The  lowing  cows  whose  shapes  I  scarcely  see, 

Oh  do  they  wait  and  do  they  call  for  her  ? 


578  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

And  is  she  changed,  or  is  her  heart  still  clear 
As  wind  or  morning,  light  as  river  foam  ? 

Or  have  life's  changes  borne  her  far  from  here, 
And  far  from  rest,  and  far  from  help  and  home  ? 

Ah  comrades,  soft,  and  let  us  rest  awhile, 

For  arms  grow  tired  with  paddling  many  a  mile. 

The  woods  grow  wild,  and  from  the  rising  shore 

The  cool  wind  creeps,  the  faint  wood  odours  steal ; 
Like  ghosts  adown  the  river's  blackening  floor 

The  misty  fumes  begin  to  creep  and  reel. 
Once  more  I  leave  you,  wandering  toward  the  night, 

Sweet  home,  sweet  heart,  that  would  have  held  me  in; 
Whither  I  go  I  know  not,  and  the  light 

Is  faint  before,  and  rest  is  hard  to  win. 
Ah  sweet  ye  were  and  near  to  heaven's  gate  ; 
But  youth  is  blind  and  wisdom  comes  too  late. 

Blacker  and  loftier  grow  the  woods,  and  hark  ! 

The  freshening  roar !     The  chute  is  near  us  now, 
And  dim  the  canyon  grows,  aud  inky  dark 

The  water  whispering  from  the  birchen  prow. 
One  long  last  look,  and  many  a  sad  adieu, 

While  eyes  can  see  and  heart  can  feel  you  yet, 
I  leave  sweet  home  and  sweeter  hearts  to  you, 

A  prayer  for  Picaud,  one  for  pale  Lisette, 
A  kiss  for  Pierre,  my  little  Jacques,  and  thee, 
A  sigh  for  Jeanne,  a  sob  for  Yerginie. 

Or,  does  she  still  remember?     Is  the  dream 

Now  dead,  or  has  she  found  another  mate  ? 
So  near,  so  dear ;  and  ah,  so  swift  the  stream  ; 

Even  now  perhaps  it  were  not  yet  too  late. 
But  oh,  what  matter  ;  for  before  the  night 

Has  reached  its  middle,  we  have  far  to  go : 
Bend  to  your  paddles,  comrades ;  see,  the  light 

Ebbs  off  apace  ;  we  must  not  linger  so. 
Aye  thus  it  is  !     Heaven  gleams  and  then  is  gone : 
Once,  twice,  it  smiles,  and  still  we  wander  on. 


ARCHIBALD  LAMPMAN.  579 

ONE   DA  Y. 

THE  trees  rustle ;  the  wind  blows 

Merrily  out  of  the  town  ; 
The  shadows  creep,  the  sun  goes 

Steadily  over  and  down. 

In  a  brown  gloom  the  moats  gleam  ; 

Slender  the  sweet  wife  stands ; 
Her  lips  are  red  ;  her  eyes  dream  ; 

Kisses  are  warm  on  her  hands. 

The  child  moans ;  the  hours  slip 

Bitterly  over  her  head  : 
In  a  grey  dusk  the  tears  drip ; 

Mother  is  up  there  dead. 

The  hermit  hears  the  strange  bright 

Murmur  of  life  at  play  ; 
In  the  waste  day  and  the  waste  night 

Times  to  rebel  and  to  pray. 

The  labourer  toils  in  grey,  wise, 

Godlike  and  patient  and  calm  ; 
The  beggar  moans  ;  his  bleared  eyes 

Measure  the  dust  in  his  palm. 

The  wise  man  marks  the  flow  and  ebb 

Hidden  and  held  aloof  : 
In  his  deep  mind  is  laid  the  web, 

Shuttles  are  driving  the  woof. 


THE    WE  A  VER. 

ALL  day,  all  day,  round  the  clacking  net 

The  weaver's  fingers  fly: 
Grey  dreams  like  frozen  mists  are  set 

In  the  hush  of  the  weaver's  eye ; 
A  voice  from  the  dusk  is  calling  yet, 

"  Oh,  come  away,  or  we  die  !  " 


58o  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Without  is  a  horror  of  hosts  that  tight, 

That  rest  not,  and  cease  not  to  kill, 
The  thunder  of  feet  and  the  cry  of  flight, 

A  slaughter  weird  and  shrill ; 
Grey  dreams  are  set  in  the  weaver's  sight, 

The  weaver  is  weaving  still. 

"  Come  away,  dear  soul,  come  away,  or  we  die ; 

Hear'st  thou  the  moan  and  the  rush  !     Come  away  ; 
The  people  are  slain  at  the  gates,  and  they  fly; 

The  kind  God  hath  left  them  this  day; 
The  battle-axe  cleaves,  and  the  foemen  cry, 

And  the  red  swords  swing  and  slay. 

"  Nay,  wife,  what  boots  it  to  fly  from  pain, 

When  pain  is  wherever  we  fly  1 
And  death  is  a  sweeter  thing  than  a  chain : 

'Tis  sweeter  to  sleep  than  to  cry. 
The  kind  God  giveth  the  days  that  wane  ; 

If  the  kind  God  hath  said  it,  I  die." 

And  the  weaver  wove,  and  the  good  wife  fled, 

And  the  city  was  made  a  tomb, 
And  a  flame  that  shook  from  the  rocks  overhead 

Shone  into  that  silent  room, 
And  touched  like  a  wide  red  kiss  on  the  dead 

Brown  weaver  slain  by  his  loom. 

Yet  I  think  that  in  some  dim  shadowy  land, 

Where  no  suns  rise  or  set, 
Where  the  ghost  of  a  whilom  loom  doth  stand, 

Round  the  dusk  of  its  silken  net 
Forever  flieth  his  shadowy  hand, 

And  the  weaver  is  weaving  yet. 

COMFORT. 

COMFORT  the  sorrowful  with  watchful  eyes 
In  silence,  for  the  tongue  cannot  avail. 
Vex  not  his  wounds  with  rhetoric,  nor  the  stale 

Worn  truths,  that  are  but  maddening  mockeries 


ARCHIBALD  LAMP  MAN.  581 

To  him  whose  grief  outmasters  all  replies. 

Only  watch  near  him  gently;  do  but  bring 

The  piteous  help  of  silent  ministering, 
Watchful  and  tender,  this  alone  is  wise. 

So  shall  thy  presence  and  thine  every  motion, 
The  grateful  knowledge  of  thy  sad  devotion 

Melt  out  the  passionate  hardness  of  his  grief, 
And  break  the  flood-gates  of  the  pent-up  soul. 
He  shall  bow  down  beneath  thy  mute  control, 

And  take  thine  hands,  and  weep,  and  find  relief. 


OUTLOOK. 

NOT  to  be  conquered  by  these  headlong  days, 
But  to  stand  free  :  to  keep  the  mind  at  brood 
On  life's  deep  meaning,  nature's  altitude 

Of  loveliness,  and  time's  mysterious  ways; 

At  every  thought  and  deed  to  clear  the  haze 
Out  of  our  eyes,  considering  only  this, 
What  man,  what  life,  what  love,  what  beauty  is, 

This  is  to  live,  and  win  the  final  praise. 

Though  strife,  ill  fortune,  and  harsh  human  need 
Beat  down  the  soul,  at  moments  blind  and  dumb 
With  agony  ;  yet,  patience — there  shall  come 

Many  great  voices  from  life's  outer  sea, 
Hours  of  strange  triumph,  and,  when  few  men  heed, 
Murmurs  and  glimpses  of  eternity. 


KNOWLEDGE. 

WHAT  is  more  large  than  knowledge  and  more  sweet ; 
Knowledge  of  thoughts  and  deeds,  of  rights  and  wrongs, 

Of  passions  and  of  beauties  and  of  songs; 
Knowledge  of  life ;  to  feel  its  great  heart  beat 


582  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Through  all  the  soul  upon  her  crystal  seat; 

To  see,  to  feel,  and  evermore  to  know; 

To  till  the  old  world's  wisdom  till  it  grow 
A  garden  for  the  wandering  of  our  feet. 

Oh  for  a  life  of  leisure  and  broad  hours, 

To  think  and  dream,  to  put  away  small  things, 
This  world's  perpetual  leaguer  of  dull  naughts; 

To  wander  like  the  bee  among  the  flowers 
Till  old  age  find  us  weary,  feet  and  wings 
Grown  heavy  with  the  gold  of  many  thoughts 


THE  RAIL  WA  Y  STATION. 

THE  darkness  brings  110  quiet  here,  the  light 
No  waking  :  ever  on  my  blinded  brain 
The  flare  of  lights,  the  rush,  and  cry,  and  strain, 

The  engine's  scream,  the  hiss  and  thunder  smite; 

I  see  the  hurrying  crowds,  the  clasp,  the  flight, 
Faces  that  touch,  eyes  that  are  dim  with  pain: 
I  see  the  hoarse  wheels  turn,  and  the  great  train 

Move  labouring  out  into  the  bourneless  night. 

So  many  souls  within  its  dim  recesses, 
So  many  bright,  so  many  mournful  eyes  : 

Mine  eyes  that  watch  grow  fixed  with  dreams  and  guesses ; 
What  threads  of  life,  what  hidden  histories, 

What  sweet  or  passionate  dreams  and  dark  distresses, 
What  unknown  thoughts,  what  various  agonies  ! 


WILLIAM  DOUW  LIGHTHALL. 
NATIONAL  HYMN. 

To  Thee  whose  smile  is  might  and  fame, 

A  nation  lifts  united  praise 
And  asks  but  that  Thy  purpose  frame 

A  useful  glory  for  its  days. 


WILLIAM  DOUW  LIGHTHALL.  583 

We  pray  no  sunset  lull  of  rest, 

No  pomp  and  bannered  pride  of  war ; 

We  hold  stern  labour  manliest, 
The  just  side  real  conqueror. 

For  strength  we  thank  Thee :  keep  us  strong, 

And  grant  us  pride  of  skilful  toil ; 
For  homes  we  thank  Thee  :  may  we  long 

Have  each  some  Eden  rood  of  soil. 

O,  keep  our  mothers  kind  and  dear, 
And  make  the  fathers  stern  and  wise ; 

The  maiden  soul  preserve  sincere, 

And  rise  before  the  young  man's  eyes, 

Crush  out  the  jest  of  idle  minds, 

That  know  not,  jesting,  when  to  hush ; 

Keep  on  our  lips  the  word  that  binds, 
And  teach  our  children  when  to  blush. 

Forever  constant  to  the  good 

Still  arm  our  faith,  thou  Guai'd  Sublime, 
To  scorn,  like  all  who  have  understood, 

The  atheist  dangers  of  the  time. 

Thou  hearest ! — Lo,  we  feel  our  love 

Of  loyal  thoughts  and  actions  free 
Toward  all  divine  achievement  move, 

Ennobled,  blest,  ensured,  by  Thee. 


CANADA  NOT  LAST. 

AT   VENICE. 

Lo  !  Venice,  gay  with  colour,  lights  and  song, 

Calls  from  St  Mark's  with  ancient  voice  and  strange: 

I  am  the  Witch  of  Cities !  glide  along 

My  silver  streets  that  never  wear  by  change 


5 84  YO  UNGER  CANADIAN  POE TS. 

Of  years :  forget  the  years,  and  pain,  aud  wrong, 
And  every  sorrow  reigning  men  among. 

Know  I  can  soothe  thee,  please  and  marry  thee 
To  my  illusions.     Old  arid  siren  strong, 

I  smile  immortal,  while  the  mortals  flee 

Who  whiten  on  to  death  in  wooing  me. 

AT   FLORENCE. 

Say,  what  more  fair,  by  Arno's  bridged  gleam,* 
Than  Florence,  viewed  from  San  Miniato's  slope 

At  eventide,  when  west  along  the  stream, 
The  last  of  day  reflects  a  stiver  hope  ! — 

Lo,  all  else  softened  in  the  twilight  beam  : — 

The  city's  mass  blent  in  one  hazy  cream, 

The  brown  Dome  'midst  it,  and  the  Lily  tower, 

And  stern  Old  Tower  more  near,  and  hills  that  seem 
Afar,  like  clouds  to  fade,  and  hills  of  power 
On  this  side,   greenly    dark  with  cypress,   vine  and 
bower. 

AT  ROME. 

End  of  desire  to  stray  I  feel  would  come 

Though  Italy  were  all  fair  skies  to  me, 
Though  France's  fields  went  mad  with  flowery  foam 

And  Blanc  put  on  a  special  majesty. 
Not  all  could  match  the  growing  thought  of  home 
Nor  tempt  to  exile.     Look  I  not  on  ROME — 

This  ancient,  modern,  mediaeval  queen — 
Yet  still  sigh  westward  over  hill  and  dome, 

Imperial  ruin  and  villa's  princely  scene 

Lovely  with  pictured  saints  and  marble  gods  serene. 

REFLECTION. 

Rome,  Florence,  Venice — noble,  fair  and  quaint, 
They  reign  in  robes  of  magic  round  me  here ; 

But  fading,  blotted,  dim,  a  picture  faint, 
With  spell  more  silent,  only  pleads  a  tear. 

*  "  Sovra'l  bel  fiume  d'Arno  la  gran  villa." — Dante. 


WILLIAM  DO  UN  LIGHTHALL.  585 

Plead  not !  Thou  hast  my  heart,  O  picture  dim  ! 

I  see  the  fields,  I  see  the  autumn  hand 
Of  God  upon  the  maples  !     Answer  Him 

With  weird,  translucent  glories,  ye  that  stand 
Like  spirits  in  scarlet  and  in  amethyst ! 
I  see  the  sun  break  over  you ;  the  mist 

On  hills  that  lift  from  iron  bases  grand 

Their  heads  superb  ! — the  dream,  it  is  my  native  land. 


HOMER. 
(EARLY  LINES.) 

TIME,  with  his  constant  touch,  has  half  erased 
The  memory,  but  he  cannot  dim  the  fame 
Of  one  who  best  of  all  has  paraphrased 
The  tale  of  waters  with  a  tale  of  flame, 
Yet  left  us  but  his  accents  and  his  name. 

Upon  that  life,  the  sun  of  history 

Shines  not,  but  Legend,  like  a  moon  in  mist, 

Sheds  over  it  a  weird  uncertainty, 
In  which  all  figures  wave  and  actions  twist, 
So  that  a  man  may  read  them  as  he  list. 

We  know  not  if  he  trod  some  Theban  street, 
And  sought  compassion  on  his  aged  woe, 

We  know  not  if  on  Chian  sand  his  feet 
Left  footprints  once ;  but  only  this  we  know, 
How  the  high  ways  of  fame  those  footprints  show. 

Along  the  border  of  the  restless  sea, 

The  lonely  thinker  must  have  loved  to  roam, 

We  feel  his  soul  wrapt  in  its  majesty, 
And  he  can  speak  in  words  that  drip  with  foam, 
As  though  himself  a  deep,  and  depths  his  home. 

Hark  !  under  all  and  through  and  over  all, 
Runs  on  the  cadence  of  the  changeful  sea; 
Now  pleasantly  the  graceful  surges  fall, 


$86  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

And  now  they  mutter  in  an  angry  key 

Ever,  throughout  their  changes,  grand  and  free. 

How  sternly  sang  he  of  Achilles'  might, 
How  sweetly  of  the  sweet  Andromache, 

How  low  his  lyre  when  Ajax  prays  for  light ; 
(Well  might  he  bend  that  lyre  in  sympathy, 
For  also  great,  and  also  blind  was  he.) 

We  almost  see  the  nod  of  stern-browed  Jove, 
And  feel  Olympus  shake ;  we  almost  hear 

The  melodies  that  Greek  youths  interwove 
In  paean  to  Apollo,  and  the  clear, 
Full  voice  of  Nestor,  sounding  far  and  near. 

A  dignity  of  sadness  filled  his  heart, 
That  sadness,  born  of  immortality, 

Which  they  alone  who  live  in  art 
Feel  in  its  sweetness  and  its  mystery, 
Half-filled  already  with  infinity. 

Yea,  Zeus  was  wise  when  he  decreed  him  blind, 
And  wiser  still  when  he  decreed  him  poor; 
For  insight  grew  as  outer  sight  declined, 
And  want  o'errode  the  ills  it  could  not  cure, 
Else  rhapsody  had  lacked  its  lay  most  pure. 


ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART. 

GUILT  IN  SOLITUDE. 

THE  wretched  have  an  hour  to  weep, 
And  penitence  may  bring  repose; 

But  there  are  thoughts  that  cannot  sleep, 
And  endless,  solitary  woes  : — 

For  me  sin's  sorrow  hath  no  close; 

I  am  a  soul  stained  and  unshriven, 

To  whom  no  soothing  hour  is  given. 


ARTHUR  JOHN  LOCKHART.  587 

The  erring  find  an  hour  to  pray, 

The  faint  on  pitying  mercy  call ; 
The  freshness  of  an  earlier  day, 

When,  innocent,  he  trusted  all, 
Again  upon  his  heart  may  fall; — 
My  poisoned  spring  of  life  doth  tend 
To  bitterness  that  hath  no  end. 

Eyes,  that  have  wept  away  their  bloom, 
May  light  their  orbs  of  faded  blue; 

And  pallid  cheeks  the  rose  resume, 
As  fields  their  flowery  robes  renew; 

But  smiles  have  bidden  me  adieu; 

Nor  laughter  on  its  ruby  shore 

Shall  break  its  joyous  wavelets  more. 

For,  in  this  lonely  hermit  cell, 

Watching  his  hosts  that  in  heaven's  bower, 
And  night's  eternal  palace,  dwell, 

I  spend,  unseen,  the  midnight  hour, 
The  captive  of  some  awful  Power ; 
Benumbed  in  heart,  with  cankering  pain, 
And  branded  with  the  curse  of  Cain. 

Star  of  lost  Hope!  long  set — O  where, 

Amid  these  shades  will  ye  arise  ? 
When  will  I  see  your  lustre  rare 

Amid  the  glory  of  yon  skies  ? 
Alas  !  ye  ne'er  shall  greet  my  eyes  ! 
At  noon  of  day,  or  night,  the  air 
Breeds  only  cursing  and  despair. 

Ears  !  but  for  one  unceasing  cry  ! — 
Eyes  !  but  for  one  unfading  stain  ! — 

In  vain  from  these  I  seek  to  fly, — 
To  lag  or  linger  is  in  vain  ! 

A  fearful  breathing  haunts  the  plain ; 

And  if  I  walk  by  wood  or  hill, 

The  spectre  dogs  my  footsteps  still. 


588  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Yet,  'mid  a  hurrying  human  sea, 

I've  swept  along  the  dizzying  street, 
And  felt  that  all  men  looked  at  me, 

Till  terror  winged  my  hastening  feet ! 
And  ere  I  reached  my  dim  retreat, 
The  rills  poured  down  a  crimson  flood, 
The  evening  sun  seemed  bathed  in  blood  ! 

One  awful  voice  in  all  things  speaks ! — 
It  shrieks  out  of  the  twilight  glade ; 

Against  each  shuddering  hill  it  breaks, 
And  rustles  under  every  shade : 

My  cheek  is  blanched,  my  soul  dismayed ; 

Then  mocking  peals  affright  the  air 

And  ring  the  dirge  of  my  despair  ! 

I  feel  not  earthly  joy,  nor  need, 

Nor  the  wild  pulse  of  strange  desire  ; 

Remote  from  men  I  sit,  and  feed 

My  heart  with  keen,  remorseful  fire. 

I  have  nor  wife,  nor  child,  nor  sire  ; — 

Happy  am  I,  in  this,  that  no 
,  %         Unhappy  life  can  share  my  woe. 

For,  surely  as  the  bird  of  eve 

Shall  charm  with  song  her  favourite  vale, 
And  surely  as  the  heart  must  grieve, 

When  bliss  of  love  is  changed  to  bale, 
I  must  pronounce  my  doleful  tale  ; — 
Judgment  and  doom  upon  me  press, 
And  the  Voice  whispers  me — "  Confess  !  " 

And  love — is  but  a  thought  resigned, 

Awakening  scarce  a  passing  sigh, 
Like  music  breathed  upon  the  wind, 

That  wins  not  to  the  ear  reply  : 
'Tis  not  for  me  to  love,  but  die  ! — 
I  dare  not  link  thy  fate  with  mine — 
I  am  a  murderer — Madeline  !  " 


BURTON  W.  LOCKHART.  589 

FROST-WORK. 

WITH  wannest  smile,  from  chilliest  night,  the  morn 
Arising,  brings  white  veil  from  darkness  drear 

Befled,  and  over  her  chaste  features  worn, 
Until  the  tardy  sun  his  face  doth  clear  : — 
Behold  !  what  maze  of  fairydom  is  here  1 

There's  not  an  elm  that  springs  its  shaft  aloof, 

But  gives  of  Winter's  stateliest  beauty  proof  !— 
All  trees  as  branching  corals  now  appear. 
I  stand,  with  eye  attent,  and  wistful  ear 

Where  silence  lays  her  finger,  as  if  soon 

Quaint  bugles  blown  from  Elfin-land  to  hear : — 

But  lo  !  the  magic  scatters — the  pure  boon 

Is  quickly  gone ! — each  tall  tree's  powdery  crown 
Does  'mid  th'  applausive  stillness  tremble  down ! 


BUBTON  W.  LOCKHART. 
SONG. 

SLOPE  softly  o'er  the  verdurous  mead, 

Sunlight  of  cloudless  skies, 
And  kiss  my  lady's  cheek  ! 

Lo  !  her  deep,  passionate  eyes, 
By  love — ethereal  love — illumed, 

Eclipse  thy  whitest  beams, 
Whenever  they  glance  back 

The  borrowed  sheen  of  silvery  streams. 

Blow  gently  round  the  winding  woods, 

O  perfumed,  gleeful  air  ! 
And  touch  my  lady's  lips, 

Wooing  with  kisses  rich  and  rare  : 
Her  murmurous  breath,  outbreathed  in  sighs, 

Is  balmier  than  thine, 
Wafted  from  orange  groves 

In  some  far-ofF  voluptuous  clime. 


590  YOUNGER  CAN-ADI  AN  POETS. 

LIFE'S  NOBLEST  HEIGHTS. 

LIFE'S  noblest  heights  are  hidden  from  the  gloomless  dells 

of  mirth ; 
Years,  that  bring  the  dim  skies  nearer,  bring  prophetic 

visions  too : 

Down  into  our  souls  come  intimations  of  life's  worth, 
If  enshrined  within  our  hearts  there  live  the  Good 
and  True. 

Awhile  Earth's  gardens  bloom,  and  the  lofty  planets 

burn; 
We  who  tread  this  mother  Earth  shall  see  their  flames 

expire : 

In  the  cycles  vast  of  ruin,  we  alone  shall  ruin  spurn  ; 
Life  immortal  shall  be  scatheless  amid  Time's  dissolving 

fire; — 
Even  into  eternal  domes  of  glory  we  aspire. 


AGNES  MAULE  MACHAR. 

DRIFTING  AMONG  THE  THOUSAND 
ISLANDS. 

NEVEK  a  ripple  on  all  the  river, 

As  it  lies,  like  a  mirror, — beneath  the  moon, — 
— Only  the  shadows  tremble  and  quiver, 

'Neath  the  balmy  breath  of  a  night  in  June  ! 
All  dark  and  silent, — each  shadowy  island 

Like  a  silhouette, — lies  on  its  silver  ground, — 
While,  just  above  us,  a  rocky  highland 

Towers,  grim  and  dusk,  with  its  pine  trees  crowned. 

Never  a  sound,  save  the  wave's  soft  plashing, 
As  the  boat  drifts  idly, — the  shore  along, — 

And  the  darting  fire-flies, — silently  flashing, — 
Gleam, — living  diamonds, — the  woods  among; 

And  the  night-hawk  flits  o'er  the  bay's  deep  bosom, 
And  the  loon's  laugh  breaks  through  the  midnight  calm, 


AGNES  MAULE  MA  CHAR.  59 

And  the  luscious  breath  of  the  wild  vine's  blossom 
Wafts  from  the  rocks — like  a  tide  of  balm. 

— Drifting  ! — Why  cannot  we  drift  forever? — 

Let  all  the  world  and  its  worries  go  ! 
Let  us  float  and  float  with  the  flowing  river, — 

Whither, — we  neither  care  nor  know  ! — 
Dreaming  a  dream, — might  we  ne'er  awaken — 

There's  joy  enough  in  this  passive  bliss  ! — 
The  wrestling  crowd  and  its  cares  forsaken, — 

Was  ever  Nirvana  more  blest  than  this  ? 

Nay  !     But  our  hearts  are  ever  lifting 

The  screen  of  the  present, — however  fair ; — 
Not  long, — not  long, — can  we  go  on  drifting, — 

Not  long  enjoy  surcease  from  care  ! 
Ours  is  a  nobler  task  and  guerdon 

Than  aimless  drifting, — however  blest, — 
Only  the  heart  that  can  bear  the  burden 

Can  share  the  joy  of  the  victor's  rest ! 


THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

OH  Whip-poor-will — oh  Whip-poor-will! 
When  all  the  joyous  day  is  still, — 
When,  from  the  sky's  fast  deepening  blue, 
Fades  out  the  sunset's  latest  hue, — 
We  hear  thy  tireless — measured  trill, — 
Oh  Whip-poor-will — oh  Whip-poor-will ! 

In  the  soft  dusk  of  dewy  May, — 
At  pensive  close  of  autumn  day, — 
Though  other  birds  may  silent  be, — 
Or  flood  the  air  with  minstrelsy, — 
Thou  carest  not — eve  brings  us  still 
Thy  plaintive  burden, — Whip-poor-will ! 

When  moonlight  fills  the  summer  night 
With  a  soft  vision  of  delight, — 


592  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

We  listen  till  we  fain  would  ask 
For  thee,  some  respite  from  thy  task, — 
— At  dawn  we  wake,  and  hear  it  still, — 
Thy  ceaseless  song, — oh  Whip-poor-will ! 

We  hear  thy  song,  but  see  not  thee, — 

Thou  seemest  but  a  voice  to  be, — 

A  wandering  spirit, — breathing,  yet 

For  parted  joys,  a  vain  regret, — 

So  plaintive  thine  untiring  trill, — 

Oh  Whip-poor-will, — oh  Whip-poor-will ! 

Oh  faithful  to  thy  strange  refrain, — 

Is  it  the  voice  of  joy  or  pain  ? — 

— We  cannot  know, — thou  wilt  not  tell 

The  secret  kept  so  long  and  well, — 

— What  moves  thee  thus  to  warble  still — 

Oh  Whip-poor-will ! — Oh  Whip-poor-will ! 


TWO   VISIONS. 

WHERE  close  the  curving  mountains  drew 
To  clasp  the  stream  in  their  embrace, 

With  every  outline,  curve,  and  hue 
Reflected  in  its  placid  face — 

The  ploughman  stopped  his  team,  to  watch 
The  train  as  swift  it  thundered  by ; 

Some  distant  glimpse  of  life  to  catch 
— He  strained  his  eager,  watchful  eye. 

His  glossy  horses  patient  stand, 
With  wonder  in  their  gentle  eyes, 

As,  through  the  tranquil  mountain  land, 
The  snorting  monster  onward  flies ; 

The  morning  freshness  is  on  him, — 

Just  roused  from  sleep  and  balmy  dream  s- 

— The  wayfarers, — all  soiled  and  dim, 
Think  longingly  of  mountain  streams. 


A  GNES  MA  ULE  MA  CHAR.  593 

Oh  for  the  joyous  mountain,  air  ! 

— The  long,  delightful  autumn  day 
Among  the  hills, — the  ploughman,  there, 

Must  have  perpetual  holiday  ! 

And  he,  as  all  day  long,  he  guides 

His  steady  plough,  with  patient  hand, 

Thinks  of  the  train  that  onward  glides 
Into  some  new,  enchanted  land ; 

Where, — day  by  day, — no  plodding  round 
Wearies  the  frame  and  dulls  the  mind,— 

Where  life  thrills  keen  in  sight  and  sound, 
With  ploughs  and  furrows  left  behind ! 

Even  so,  to  each, — the  untrod  ways 
Of  life  are  touched  by  fancy's  glow, 

That  ever  sheds  its  brightest  rays 
Upon  the  path  we  do  not  know! 


IN  THE  STUDIO. 

You  smile  to  see  the  canvas  bear 
The  golden  sunshine  of  September, 

And  trace,  in  all  its  outlines  fair, 
The  landscape  we  so  well  remember  ! 

You  mark  the  sky  of  softest  blue, 

The  dreamy  haze,  so  golden-mellow — 

The  woods,  in  robes  of  richest  .hue, 

Just  turning, — here  and  there,  to  yellow  ; 

The  solemn  pines  above  the  stream, 

Where  yon  grey  mountain  rears  its  shoulder,- 
The  maple's  gold  and  scarlet  gleam 

Beside  the  lichened  granite  boulder. 

You  whisper,  with  a  fond  delight, 

That  this  reflection  of  September 
Might  cheer  us  on  the  wildest  night, 

Amid  the  snows  of  dull  December  ! 


594  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

— But,  while  you  kindly  praise  the  whole, 

You  cannot  see  the  figure  in  it 
That  graved  upon  the  artist's  soul 

The  sunshine  of  that  happy  minute; — 

You  cannot  see  the  earnest  eyes 
That  grew  so  dreamy  and  so  tender, — 

While  watching,  witli  a  glad  surprise, 

That  autumn  landscape's  golden  splendour ; 

You  cannot  see  the  soul-lit  face 

That  glowed  response  to  Nature's  sweetness,  - 
So  adding  to  its  ripest  grace, 

Its  crowning  charm  of  glad  completeness! 

Well,  Love,  that  charm  is  left  me  still, 

Though  vanished  is  that  glad  September; — 

Though  leaves  lie  strewn  and  winds  blow  chill, 
You  are  my  sunshine  of  December  ! 


WILLIAM  M'LENNAN. 
"  THE  PINES"— MOUNT  ROYAL. 

THE  Mountain  woos  us  from  the  heat, 
With  leaves  that  wave,  with  birds  that  sing 
To  see  the  Earth's  great  pulses  beat 
Beneath  the  first  warm  kiss  of  Spring. 

We  sit  beneath  the  sheltering  Pines 
Which,  murmuring,  sent  their  fragrance  down, 
The  buds  are  bursting  on  the  vines, 
The  fields  are  losing  all  their  brown : 

The  robin  pauses  in  his  flight 
To  pour  abroad  his  mellow  note, 
On  fence  and  field  the  crows  alight, 
The  swallows  in  the  clear  blue  float. 

The  brown  pine-needles  at  our  feet 
Spread  forth  until  the  green  is  met, 


CHARLES  MAIN.  595 

To  mingle  all  their  perfume  sweet 
With  trillium  and  with  violet. 

Below  us  rolls  the  swelling  plain 
With  lines  and  groves  of  graceful  trees, 
With  fields  that  pale  and  turn  again 
As  ruffled  by  the  passing  breeze. 

The  golden  silence  o'er  us  seems 
Scarce  broken  by  the  insects'  hum, 
Though  faint  and  low,  like  songs  in  dreams, 
The  chimes  from  distant  steeples  come. 

As  St  Laurent's  twin  towers  arise 
To  mark  its  nest  amid  the  green, 
Westward,  the  silver  water  flies, 
In  changing  beauties,  past  Lachine. 

Far  to  the  North  a  ray  streams  down, 
And  by  its  shimmering  beauties  led, 
We  see  its  golden  glories  crown 
The  place  where  mighty  Rivers  wed. 

Then  comes  the  end,  the  bright  light  pales, 
The  wind  springs  up  afresh  and  chill, 
A  rising  rnist  the  fair  plain  veils 
And  sweeps  in  silence  towards  the  hill. 


CHARLES    MAIR. 

[Born  1840.] 
FROM  THE   TECUMSEH. 

LEPEOY  (recites). 

THERE  was  a  time  on  this  fair  Continent 
When  all  things  throve  in  spacious  peacefulness. 
The  prosperous  forests  unmolested  stood, 
For  where  the  stalwart  oak  grew  there  it  lived 
Long  ages.,  and  then  died  among  its  kind. 


596  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

The  hoary  pines — those  ancient  of  the  earth — 
Brimful  of  legends  of  the  earthly  world, 
Stood  thick  on  their  own  mountains  unsubdued. 
And  all  things  else  illumined  by  the  sun, 
Inland  or  by  the  lifted  wave,  had  rest. 
The  passionate  or  calm  pageants  of  the  skies 
No  artist  drew;  but  in  the  auburn  west 
Innumerable  faces  of  fair  cloud 
Vanished  in  silent  darkness  with  the  day. 
The  prairie  realm — vast  ocean's  paraphrase — 
Rich  in  wild  grasses  numberless,  and  flowers 
Unnamed  save  in  mute  Nature's  inventory 
No  civilised  barbarian  trenched  for  gain. 
And  all  that  flowed  was  sweet  and  uncorrupt. 
The  rivers  and  their  tributary  streams, 
Undammed,  wound  on  forever,  and  gave  up 
Their  lonely  torrents  to  weird  gulfs  of  sea, 
The  ocean  wastes  unshadowed  by  a  sail, 
And  all  the  wild  life  of  this  Western  World 
Knew  not  the  fear  of  man;  yet  in  those  woods, 
And  by  those  plenteous  streams  and  mighty  lakes, 
And  on  stupendous  steppes  of  peerless  plain, 
And  in  the  rocky  gloom  of  canyons  deep, 
Screened  by  the  stony  ribs  of  mountains  hoar 
Which  steeped  their  snowy  peaks  in  purging  cloud, 
And  down  the  Continent  where  tropic  suns 
Warmed  to  her  very  heart  the  mother  earth, 
And  in  the  congeal'd  north  where  silence'  self 
Ached  with  intensity  of  stubborn  frost, 
There  lived  a  soul  more  wild  than  barbarous; 
A  tameless  soul — the  sunburnt  savage  free — 
Free,  and  untainted  by  the  greed  of  gain ; 
Great  Nature's  man  content  with  Nature's  food. 

TECUMSEH. 

Comrades,  and  faithful  warriors  of  our  race  ! 

Ye  who  defeated  Harmar  and  St  Glair, 

And  made  their  hosts  a  winter's  feast  of  wolves  ! 


CHARLES  MAIR.  597 

I  call  on  you  to  follow  me  again, 

Not  now  for  war,  but  as  forearmed  for  fight. 

As  ever  in  the  past  so  is  it  still : 

Our  sacred  treaties  are  infringed  and  torn ; 

Laughed  out  of  sanctity,  and  spurned  away ; 

Used  by  the  Long-Knife's  slaves  to  light  his  fire, 

Or  turned  to  kites  by  thoughtless  boys,  whose  wrists 

Anchor  their  fathers'  lies  in  front  of  heaven. 

And  now  we're  asked  to  council  at  Vincennes ; 

To  bend  to  lawless  ravage  of  our  lands, 

To  treacherous  bargains,  contracts  false,  wherein 

One  side  is  bound,  the  other  loose  as  air  ! 

Where  are  those  villains  of  our  race  and  blood 

Who  signed  the  treaties  that  unseat  us  here ; 

That  rob  us  of  rich  plains  and  forests  wide ; 

And  which,  consented  to,  will  drive  us  hence 

To  stage  our  lodges  in  the  Northern  Lakes, 

In  penalties  of  hunger  worse  than  death  ? 

Where  are  they  1  that  we  may  confront  them  now 

With  your  wronged  sires,  your  mothers,  wives  and  babes, 

And,  wringing  from  their  false  and  slavish  lips 

Confession  of  their  baseness,  brand  with  shame 

The  traitor  hands  which  sign  us  to  our  graves. 

LEFEOY. 

This  region  is  as  lavish  of  its  flowers 
As  Heaven  of  its  primrose  blooms  by  night. 
This  is  the  Arum  which  within  its  root 
Folds  life  and  death;  and  this  the  prince's  Pine, 
Fadeless  as  love  and  truth — the  fairest  form 
That  ever  sun-shower  washed  with  sudden  rain. 
This  golden  cradle  is  the  Moccasin  Flower, 
Wherein  the  Indian  hunter  sees  his  hound; 
And  this  dark  chalice  is  the  Pitchei'-Plant, 
Stored  with  the  water  of  forgetfulness. 
Whoever  drinks  of  it,  whose  heart  is  pure, 
Will  sleep  for  aye  'neath  foodful  asphodel, 
And  dream  of  endless  love. 


598  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

JENA  (sings). 

Fly  far  from  me 

Even  as  the  daylight  flies, 
And  leave  me  in  the  darkness  of  my  pain  ! 
Some  earlier  love  will  come  to  thee  again, 

And  sweet  new  moons  will  rise, 

And  smile  on  it  and  thee. 

Fly  far  from  me 

Even  whilst  the  daylight  wastes — 
Ere  thy  lips  burn  me  in  a  last  caress; 
Ere  fancy  quickens,  and  my  longings  press, 

And  my  weak  spirit  hastes 
For  shelter  unto  thee  ! 

Fly  far  from  me 

Even  whilst  the  daylight  pales — 
So  shall  we  never,  never  meet  again ! 
Fly  !  for  my  senses  swim — O  Love  !  oh  pain  ! 

Help  !  for  my  spirit  fails — 
I  cannot  fly  from  thee  ! 


MARY  MORGAN"  (GOWAN,1  LEA). 

"  In  apprehension,  so  like  a  god  "' 

TAKE  the  mouldering  dust, 

Wake  it  into  life, — 

Matter  is  but  servant  of  the  mind. 

Touch  the  silent  keys  : 

Genius  can  evoke 

Music  wherein  gods  commune  with  men. 

Read  the  soul  of  man, 
And  the  farthest  star  : 
Truth  is  one,  and  is  forever  true. 

Think  the  wildest  thought, 

Hope  the  utmost  hope — 

Time  shall  be  when  all  shall  be  fulfilled. 


CHARLES  PELHAM  MULVANEY.  599 

Wonder  not  at  deed, 

Wonder  more  at  thought, 

Wonder  at  the  hope  that  feeds  itself. 

Genius  is  divine, 

Genius  is  true : 

Man  becomes  that  which  he  worships ; — God  ! 


CHARLES  PELHAM  MULVANEY.    ,  , 

[Born  about  1835.] 

FROM  FAR. 

I  DREAMED  that  youth  returned, — the  unreturning ! 

I  saw  her  cottage  on  the  high  hill  stand ; 
And  by  broad  waters  in  the  sunset  burning, 

I  walked  once  more  with  Laura,  hand  in  hand. 

Hovv  firmly  fashioned  is  the  tiny  figure, 

Her  keen  grey  eyes,  how  fairy-like  they  glow; 

She  stands,  her  light  limbs  full  of  grace  and  vigour, 
Her  hand  close  claspt  in  mine,  as  long  ago  ! 

It  is  not  love  upon  my  senses  stealing, 

My  thoughts  no  purpose  and  no  pause  allow; 

No  passion  blinds  with  the  intenser  feeling, 
As  once  again  I  kiss  that  fair  young  brow. 

Enchantment  streamed  once  more  on  hill  and  ether, 
Beneath  us  ocean  seemed  a  summer  sea ; 

"Be  mine,"  I  said,  "and  let  us  go  together, 
That  I  once  more  may  pure  and  happy  be." 

But  what  her  words  were  I  cannot  remember, 

For  suddenly  awaking,  I  lay  here, 
In  this  bleak  land  whose  May  might  match  December, 

The  sullen  spring-time  of  a  flowerless  year. 


6oo  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

SOUTH  AFRICA  REMEMBERED  AT 
NIAGARA,  CANADA. 

WIND  of  the  south,  hast  thou  stolen  the  breath  of  the 

blossoming  heather 

Fresh  from  the  land  I  left,  never  again  to  return ! 
Bringing  me  back  the  days,  when,  walking  over  the  hill 
side, 

Many  a  time  we  met,  we  who  shall  meet  not  again ! 
There  are  the  myrtles  still,  there  twine  the  clambering 

roses 

Garden  and  granite  cliff,  there  are  they  still  as  of  old  ! 
There  by  the  wine-dark  sea,  dark   bloom   Constantia's 

vineyards, 
There  are  the  tall  black  ships,  moored  in  the  mirroring 

wave, 

Changeless  all  and  fair,  as  then  when  last  I  beheld  them 
Faintly  with  farewell  gaze,  over  the  heave  of  the  sea — 
Changeless,  though  but  a  dream ;  still  fair,  though  but 

an  illusion, 
Seen   through  the  torrent's   sweep,  heard  through  the 

cataract's  roar. 


SOME  ONE  COMES. 

SOME  one  comes,  I  hear  the  footsteps, 

See  the  shadow  cast, 
At  my  lonely  door  that  trembles 

In  the  bitter  blast — 

Some  one  comes — or  is  it  fancy, 

Or  a  friend  at  last. 

"  Open  quick,  so  fast  the  snowflakes 

Fleck  the  winter  sky. 
Let  me  in  !  the  storm  increases 

As  the  night  draws  nigh — 
Shelter  !  quick  !  no  corpse  is  colder 

In  the  grave  than  I." 


JOHN  READE.  601 

"  I  am  Wealth,  and  I  can  give  thee 

Gold  that  men  adore — 
Friends  and  troops  of  merry  comrades, 

Joyous  as  of  yore." 
Fool !  will  all  thou  hast  to  offer, 

Vanished  youth  restore  ? 

"  I  am  Love,  whom  years  that  vanish 

Still  shall  find  the  same  ! " 
Still !  as  when  in  southern  sunshine 

First  the  Phantom  came  \ 
With  a  fond  word,  long  unspoken — 

A  forgotten  name ! 

"  I  am  Death,  I  only  offer 

Peace — that  long  day  done. 
Follow  me  into  the  darkness — " 

Welcome  !     Friend,  lead  on — 
Only  spare  my  dog ;  let  something 

Grieve,  when  I  am  gone  ! 


JOHN   READE. 

[Born  1837.] 

ANTIGONE. 

IF  Homer  ne'er  had  sung;  if  Socrates 

Had  never  lived  in  virtue's  cause  to  die; 

If  the  wild  chorus  of  the  circling  seas 

Had  never  echoed  back  poor  Sappho's  sigh; 

If  Sparta  had  not  with  her  purest  blood 

Traced  on  all  time  the  name  "Thermopylae;" 

If  Greece,  united  through  the  surging  flood 

Of  Persian  pride,  had  not  arisen  free; 

If  nought  of  great  or  wise  or  brave  or  good 

Had  proved  thee,  Hellas,  what  thou  wast,  to  be, 

Save  that  thou  didst  create  "Antigone" — 

Thou  still  hadst  in  the  van  of  nations  stood. 

Fall'n  are  thy  noblest  temples,  but  above 

Them  all  there  gleams  thy  shrine  of  woman's  love. 


602  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

BRITISH  CANADA  TO  MR  LOUIS 
H.  FRECHETTE* 

O  GIFTED  son  of  our  dear  land  and  thine, 
We  joy  with  thee  on  this  thy  joyous  day, 
And  in  thy  laurel  crown  would  fain  entwine 
A  modest  wreath  of  our  own  simple  bay. 
Shamrock  and  thistle  and  sweet  roses  gay, 
Both  red  and  white,  with  parted  lips  that  smile, 
Like  some  bright  maiden  of  their  native  isle — 
These,  with  the  later  maple,  take,  we  pray, 
To  mingle  with  thy  laurelled  lily,  long 
Pride  of  the  brave  and  theme  of  poet's  song. 
They  err  who  deem  us  aliens.     Are  not  we 
Bretons  and  Normans,  too  ?     North,  south  and  west 
Gave  us,  like  you,  of  blood  and  speech  their  best, 
Here,  re-united,  one  great  race  to  be. 


PICTURES  OF  MEMOR  Y. 


HERE  is  the  old  church.     Now  I  see  it  all — 

The  hills,  the  sea,  the  bridge,  the  waterfall. 

The  dear  old  sleepy  town  is  still  abed 

Although  the  eastern  clouds  are  tinged  with  red. 

And  everything  is,  as  this  graveyard  still, 

Except  the  soldiers  at  their  morning  drill, 

And  in  the  Pool  a  fishing  boat  or  two 

Belated,  homeward  pulled  with  weary  oar, 

And  the  dim  curlews  on  the  distant  shore, 

And  the  lark  soaring  through  the  ether  blue. 

But  now  the  lazy  smoke  curls  through  the  air — 

I  will  go  down  and  see  who  tenant  there, 

And  meet  old  friends.     "  First,  wanderer,  look  around 

And  see  what  friends  of  thine  are  underground ! " 

*  On  the  occasion  of  his  poems  being  crowned  by  the  French 
Academy.  Read  by  the  Hon.  P.  J.  O.  Chauveau  at  a  banquet 
given  to  Mr  Frechette. 


JOHN  READE.  603 

II. 

The  mountains  gather  round  thee  as  of  yore, 

0  holy  lake,  across  whose  tranquil  breast 
Was  borne  the  saint  who  to  the  farthest  west 
Brought  the  sweet  knowledge  that  transcends  all  lore. 
There  on  the  islet  at  the  chapel  door 

The  penitents  are  kneeling,  while  along 
There  flows  the  mystic  tide  of  sacred  song 
To  where  I  stand  upon  the  rugged  shore. 
But  now,  there  is  a  silence  weird  and  dread, 
And  utter  loneliness  is  in  my  heart. 

1  came  to  seek  the  living  but  the  dead — 
This  is  their  welcome.     Slowly  I  depart 
Nor  read  the  name  beneath  a  single  cross — 
He  still  is  rich  who  doth  not  know  his  less. 

ill. 

There  is  the  school-house;  there  the  lake,  the  lawn; 

And  there,  just  fronting  it,  the  barrack-square; 

But  of  all  those  I  knew  not  one  is  there — 

Even  the  old  gate  keeper — he  is  gone. 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  when  last  I  stood  upon 

This  grassy  mound,  with  what  proud  hopes  elate 

I  was  to  wrestle  with  the  strength  of  fate 

And  conquer  !     Now — I  live  and  that  is  all. 

Oh  !  happier  those  whose  lot  it  was  to  fall 

In  noble  conflict  with  their  country's  foes, 

Far  on  the  shores  of  Tauric  Chersonese  ! 

Nay,  all  are  blest  who  answer  duty's  call. 

But — do  I  dream  or  wake  ?     What  ghosts  are  these  1 

Hush  !  throbbing  heart !  these  are  the  sons  of  those. 

IV. 

Oh  !  what  could  wake  to  life  that  first  sweet  flame 
That  warmed  my  heart  when  by  the  little  Bay 
On  blissful  summer  evenings  I  lay 
Beneath  our  thorn-bush,  waiting  till  she  came 
Who  was  to  me  far  more  than  wealth  or  fame, 


604  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

But  yet  for  whom  I  wished  all  fair  things  mine, 
To  make  her,  if  she  could  be,  more  divine 
By  outer  splendour  and  a  noble  name. 
Now  I  may  wait  in  vain  from  early  morn 
Till  sunset  for  the  music  of  her  feet. 
'  And  yet  how  little  change  has  come  upon 
This  fairy  scene  her  beauty  made  so  sweet ! 
It  weareth  still  the  glory  of  her  smile. 
Ah  !  if  she  were  but  here  a  little  while. 


v. 

It  is  ebb-tide.     The  scientific  eye 

May  see  slow  changes  creeping  o'er  the  shore. 

I  know  not  whether  it  be  less  or  more, 

I  know  that  it  is  it,  that  I  am  I. 

I  note  no  difference  in  the  curlew's  cry; 

The  restless  billows  have  not  lost  their  tone; 

The  ocean  moaneth  with  the  old-time  moan — 

But  from  my  heart  there  riseth  a  strange  sigh 

For  something  that  I  see  not.     Yet  I  see 

Of  happy  faces  goodly  company. 

And  I  am  well  and  strong  and  full  of  life, 

I  have  a  pleasure  in  the  salt  sea  breeze, 

I  sympathise  with  Nature's  calm  and  strife, 

Why  may  I  not  be  gay  as  well  as  these  1 

VI. 

Why  in  the  day-dream  of  a  vain  regret 
Lap  the  soul's  energies  1     Why  linger  near 
The  place  of  graves  for  ever?     Every  year 
Has  its  own  burden :  to  each  day  is  set 
Its  tale  of  duty.     It  is  better  far 
To  pilot  the  soul's  bark  by  sun  and  star, 
Than,  looking  ever  to  the  shore  behind, 
Leave  it  a  ready  prey  to  every  wind. 
And  yet  we  love  to  linger  near  the  Past, 
We  love  to  stand  upon  the  windy  shore 


JOHN  READE.  605 

And,  gazing  far  upon  the  dim  sea-waste, 
Which  holds  our  joys,  our  tears,  our  loves  of  yore, 
Wait  till  some  treasure  at  our  feet  be  cast 
From  the  unsounded  deeps  of  Nevermore. 


DOMINION  DAY. 

JULY  IST,  1867. 

i. 

OUR  land  is  flushed  with  love ;  through  the  wealth  of 

her  gay-hued  tresses 
From  his  bright-red  fingers  the  sun  has  been  dropping 

his  amorous  fire, 
And  her  eyes  are  gladly  oppressed  with  the  weight  of 

his  lip's  caresses, 

And  the  zephyr-throbs  of  her  bosom  keep  time  with 
the  voice  of  his  lyre. 

n. 

'Tis  the  moon  of  the  sweet,  strong  summer,  the  King  of 

the  months  of  the  year, 
And  the  King  of  the  year  is  crowning  our  Land  with 

his  glory  of  love, 
And  the  King  of  all  Kings,  in  whose  crown  each  gem  is 

the  light  of  a  sphere, 

Looks  smilingly  down  on  our  Land  from  the  height  of 
his  heaven  above. 

in. 

For  to-day  she  breathes  what  to  her  is  the  first  of  a 

nation's  breath, 
As  she  lies  'neath  the  gaze  of  the  sun,  as  a  bride,  or 

a  child  new-born 
Lies  with  fair  motionless  limbs  in  the  beautiful  semblance 

of  death, 

Yet  awake  with  the  joy  of  a  bird  that  awakes  with  the 
whisper  of  morn. 

2R 


606  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

IV. 

And  her  soul  is  drinking  the  music  that  flows  through 

the  golden  lyre, 

From  the  deeps  of  the  woods  and  waters  and  wonder 
ful  hearts  of  men, 
From   the   long-hushed   songs   of   the   forest,  the  wild 

primeval  choir, 

Till  she  feels  the  breath  of  the  spirit  move  over  her 
face  again. 


PART    VIII. 

I. 

The  ocean  has  kissed  her  feet 
With  cool,  soft  lips  that  smile, 

And  his  breath  is  wondrously  sweet 
With  the  odours  of  many  an  Isle. 

II. 

He  has  many  a  grand  old  song 
Of  his  grand,  old  fearless  Kings ; 

And  the  voice  from  his  breast  is  strong, 
As  he  sings  and  laughs  as  he  sings. 

in. 

Though  often  his  heart  is  sad 

With  the  weight  of  the  grey-haired  days 
That  were  once  as  light  and  as  glad 

As  the  soul  of  a  child  that  plays. 

IV. 

But  to-day  at  Canada's  feet, 

He  smiles,  as  when  Venus  was  born, 
And  the  breath  from  his  lips  is  as  sweet 

As  the  breath  of  wet  flowers  at  morn. 


JOHN  READE.  607 

IN  MY  HEART. 


IN  my  heart  are  many  chambers  through  which  I  wander 

free ; 
Some  are  furnished,  some  are  empty,  some  are  sombre, 

some  are  light ; 

Some  are  open  to  all  comers,  and  of  some  I  keep  the  key, 
And  I  enter  in  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

ii. 

But  there's  one  I  never  enter, — it  is  closed  to  even  me  ! 

Only  once  its  door  was  opened,  and  it  shut  for  ever 
more; 

And  though  sounds  of  many  voices  gather  round  it,  like 
a  sea, 

It  is  silent,  ever  silent,  as  the  shore. 

in. 

In  that  chamber  long  ago,  my  love's  casket  was  concealed, 
And  the  jewel  that  it  sheltered  I  knew  only  one  could 

win ; 
And  my  soul  foreboded  sorrow,  should  that  jewel  be 

revealed, 
And  I  almost  hoped  that  none  might  enter  in. 

IV. 

Yet  day  and  night  I  lingered  by  that  fatal  chamber  door, 
Till — she  came  at  last  my  darling  one,  of  all  the  earth 

my  own ; 
And  she  entered — and  she  vanished  with  my  jewel,  which 

she  wore; 
And  the  door  was  closed — and  I  was  left  alone. 

v. 

She  gave  me  back  no  jewel,  but  the  spirit  of  her  eyes 
Shone  with   tenderness  a  moment,  as  she  closed  that 
chamber  door, 


608  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

And   the   memory  of   that   moment  is   all   I   have   to 

prize — 
But  that,  at  least,  is  mine  for  ever  more. 

VI. 

Was  she  conscious,  wheu  she  took  it,  that  the  jewel  was 

my  love  ? 
Did  she  think  it  but  a  bauble,  she  might  wear  or  toss 

aside  ? 

I  know  not,  I  accuse  not,  but  I  hope  that  it  may  prove 
A  blessing,  though  she  spurn  it  in  her  pride. 


PROFESSOR  CHARLES  GEORGE  DOUGLAS 
ROBERTS. 

[Professor  of   English  Literature   at  the  University  of  Thing's 
College,  Windsor,  Nova  Scotia.     Born  in  New  Brunswick.] 

COLLECT  FOR  DOMINION  DA  Y. 

FATHER  of  nations  !     Help  of  the  feeble  hand  ! 

Strength  of  the  strong  !  to  whom  the  nations  kneel ! 
Stay  and  destroyer,  at  whose  just  command, 
Earth's  kingdoms  tremble  and  her  empires  reel ! 

Who  dost  the  low  uplift,  the  small  make  great, 
And  dost  abase  the  ignorantly  proud, 
Of  our  scant  people  mould  a  mighty  state, 
To  the  strong,  stern, — to  Thee  in  meekness  bowed  ! 

Father  of  unity,  make  this  people  one  ! 

Weld,  interfuse  them  in  the  patriot's  flame, — 
Whose  forging  on  their  anvil  was  begun 

In  blood  late  shed  to  purge  the  common  shame ; 
That  so  our  hearts,  the  fever  of  faction  done, 
Banish  old  feud  in  our  young  nation's  name. 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  609 

CANADA. 

0  CHILD  of  nations,  giant-limbed, 
Who  stand'st  among  the  nations  now 

Unheeded,  unadored,  unhymned, 
With  unanointed  brow, — 

How  long  the  ignoble  sloth,  how  long 
The  trust  in  greatness  not  thine  own  1 

Surely  the  lion's  brood  is  strong 
To  front  the  world  alone ! 

How  long  the  indolence,  ere  thou  dare 
Achieve  thy  destiny,  seize  thy  fame — 

Ere  our  proud  eyes  behold  thee  bear 
A  nation's  franchise,  nation's  name1? 

The-  Saxon  force,  the  Celtic  fire, 

These  are  thy  manhood's  heritage  ! 
Why  rest  with  babes  and  slaves  ?     Seek  higher 

The  place  of  race  and  age. 

1  see  to  every  wind  unfurled 

The  flag  that  bears  the  Maple  Wreath ; 
Thy  swift  keels  furrow  round  the  world 
Its  blood-red  folds  beneath ; 

Thy  swift  keels  cleave  the  furthest  seas ; 

Thy  white  sails  swell  with  alien  gales ; 
To  stream  on  each  remotest  breeze 

The  black  smoke  of  thy  pipes  exhales. 

O  Falterer,  let  thy  past  convince 

Thy  future, — all  the  growth,  the  gain, 

The  fame  since  Cartier  knew  thee,  since 
Thy  shores  beheld  Champlain  ! 

Montcalm  and  Wolfe !  Wolfe  and  Montcalm  ! 

Quebec,  thy  storied  citadel 
Attest  in  burning  song  and  psalm 

How  here  thy  heroes  fell ! 


6io  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

0  them  that  bor'st  the  battle's  brunt 

At  Queenstown,  and  at  Lundy's  Lane, — 

On  whose  scant  ranks  but  iron  front 
The  battle  broke  in  vain  ! — 

Whose  was  the  danger,  whose  the  day, 

From  whose  triumphant  throats  the  cheers, 

At  Chryslers'  Farm,  at  Chateauguay, 
Storming  like  clarion-bursts  our  ears  ? 

On  soft  Pacific  slopes, — beside 

Strange  floods  that  northward  rave  and  fall,- 
Where  chafes  Acadia's  chainless  tide — 

Thy  sons  await  thy  call. 

They  wait;  but  some  in  exile,  some 

With  strangers  housed,  in  stranger  lands; — 

And  some  Canadian  lips  are  dumb 
Beneath  Egyptian  sands. 

O  mystic  Nile !     Thy  secret  yields 
Before  us,  thy  most  ancient  dreams 

Are  mixed  with  far  Canadian  fields 
And  murmur  of  Canadian  streams. 

But  thou,  my  Country,  dream  not  thou  ! 

Wake,  and  behold  how  night  is  done, — 
How  on  thy  breast,  and  o'er  thy  brow, 

Bursts  the  uprising  sun ! 


KHAR  TO  UM. 

SET  in  the  fierce  red  desert  for  a  sword, 

Drawn  and  deep-driven  implacably  !     The  tide 
Of  scorching  sand  that  chafes  thy  landward  side 
Storming  thy  palms ;  and  past  thy  front  outpoured 
The  Nile's  vast  dread  and  wonder !     Late  there  roared 
(While  far  off  paused  the  long  war,  long  defied) 
Mad  tumult  thro'  thy  streets ;    and  Gordon  died, 
Slaughtered  amid  the  yelling  rebel  horde. 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  611 

Yet,  spite  of  shame  and  wrathful  tears,  Khartoum, 
We  owe  thee  certain  thanks,  for  thou  hast  shown 

How  still  the  one  a  thousand  crowds  outweighs, — 
Still  one  man's  mood  sways  millions, — one  man's  doom 
Smites  nations ; — and  our  burning  spirits  own 
Not  sordid  these  nor  unheroic  days  ! 


THE  PIPES  OF  PAN. 

RINGED  with  the  nocking  of  hills,  within  shepherding 

watch  of  Olympus, 

Tempe,  vale  of  the  gods,  lies  in  green  quiet  withdrawn ; 
Tempe,  vale  of  the  gods,  deep-couched  amid  woodland 

and  woodland, 
Threaded  with  amber  of  brooks,  mirrored  in  azure  of 

pools, 
All   day   drowsed  with  the   sun,    charm-drunken  with 

moonlight  at  midnight, 
Walled   from    the   world    forever    under  a   vapour   of 

dreams — 
Hid  by  the  shadows  of  dreams,  not  found  by  the  curious 

footstep, 
Sacred  and  secret  forever,  Tempe,  vale  of  the  gods. 

How,  through  the  cleft  of  its  bosom,  goes  sweetly  the 

water  Peneus ! 

How  by  Peneus  the  sward  breaks  into  saffron  and  blue  ! 
How  the  long  slope-floored  beech-glades  mount  to  the 

wind-wakened  uplands, 
Where,    through   flame-berried   ash,    troop   the   hoofed 

centaurs  at  morn  ! 
Nowhere  greens  a  copse  but  the  eye-beams  of  Artemis 

pierce  it. 

Breathes  no  laurel  her  balm  but  Phrebus'  fingers  caress, 
Springs  no  bed  of  wild  blossom  but  limbs  of  dryad  have 

pressed  it. 
Sparkle  the  nymphs,   and  the  brooks  chime  with  shy 

laughter  and  calls. 


612  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Here  is  a  nook  ;  two  rivulets  fall  to  mix  with  Peneus, 
Loiter  a  space,  and  sleep,  checked  and  choked  by  the 

reeds. 
Long  grass  waves  in  the  windless  water,  strewn  with 

the  lote-leaf ; 

Twist  thro'  dripping  soil  great  alder  roots,  and  the  air 
Glooms  with  the  dripping  tangle  of  leaf-thick  branches, 

and  stillness 
Keeps  in  the  strange-coiled  stems,  ferns,  and  wet-loving 

weeds. 
Hither  comes  Pan,  to  this  pregnant  earthy  spot,  when 

his  piping 
Flags ;   and  his   pipes   outworn   breaking   and   casting 

away, 

Fits   new  reeds   to   bis   mouth  with   the  weird  earth- 
melody  in  them, 

Piercing,  alive  with  a  life  able  to  mix  with  the  gods. 
Then,  as  he  blows,  and  the  searching  sequence  delights 

him,  the  goat-feet 
Furtive  withdraw;    and  a  bird  stirs  and  flutes  in  the 

gloom 
Answering;   float  with  the  stream  the  outworn  pipes 

with  a  whisper, — 
"What  the  god  breathes  on,  the  god  never  can  wholly 

evade ! " 

God-breath  lurks  in  each  fragment  forever ;  dispersed  by 

Peneus, 
Wandering,  caught  in  the  ripples,  wind-blown  hither  and 

there, 
Over  the  whole  green  earth  and  globe  of  sea  they  are 

scattered, 

Coming  to  secret  spots,  where  in  a  visible  form 
Comes  not  the  god,   though  he  come  declared  in  his 

workings.     And  mortals 

Straying  in  cool  of  morn,  or  bodeful  hasting  at  eve, 
Or  in  the  depths  of  noonday  plunged  to  shadiest  coverts, 
Spy  them,  and  set  to  their  lips,  blow  and   fling  them 

away. 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  613 

Ay,  they  fling  them  away, — but  never  wholly  !  There 
after 

Creeps  strange  fire  in  their  veins,  murmur  strange 
tongues  in  their  brain, 

Sweetly  evasive ;  a  secret  madness  takes  them, — a 
charm-struck 

Passion  for  woods  and  wild  life,  the  solitude  of  the  hills. 

Therefore  they  fly  the  heedless  throngs  and  traffic  of  cities, 

Haunt  mossed  caverns,  and  wells  bubbling  ice-cool ;  and 
their  souls 

Gather  a  magical  gleam  of  the  secret  of  life,  and  the 
god's  voice 

Calls  to  them,  not  from  afar,  teaching  them  wonderful 
things. 


THE  ISLES:  AN  ODE. 


FAITHFUL  reports  of  them  have  reached  me  oft ! 
Many  their  embassage  to  mortal  court, 
By  golden  pomp,  and  breathless-heard  consort 

Of  music  soft, — 
By  fragrances  accredited, 'and  dreams. 

Many  their  speeding  herald  whose  light  feet 
Make  pause  at  wayside  brooks,  and  fords  of  streams, 
Leaving  transfigured  by  an  effluence  fleet 
Those  wayfarers  they  meet. 

II. 

No  wind  from  out  the  solemn  wells  of  night 
But  hath  its  burden  of  strange  messages, 
Tormenting  for  interpreter;  nor  less 

The  wizard  light 
That  steals  from  noon-stilled  waters,  woven  in  shade, 

Beckons  somewhither,  with  cool  fingers  slim. 
No  dawn  but  hath  some  subtle  word  conveyed 
In  rose  ineffable  at  sunrise  rim, 
Or  charactery  dim. 


614  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

in. 

One  moment  throbs  the  hearing,  yearns  the  sight ; 
But  tho'  not  far,  yet  strangely  hid  the  way, 
And  our  sense  slow;  nor  long  for  us  delay 

The  guides  their  flight ! 
The  breath  goes  by;  the  word,  the  light,  elude; 

And  we  stay  wondering.     But  there  comes  an  hour 
Of  fitness  perfect  and  unfettered  mood, 

When  splits  her  husk  the  finer  sense  with  power, 
And — yon  their  palm-trees  tower  ! 

IV. 

Here  Homer  came,  and  Milton  came,  tho'  blind. 
Omar's  deep  doubts  still  found  them  nigh  and  nigher, 
And  learned  them  fashioned  to  the  heart's  desire. 

The  supreme  mind 
Of  Shakespeare  took  their  sovereignty,  and  smiled. 

Those  passionate  Israelitish  lips  that  poured 
The  song  of  songs  attained  them;  and  the  wild 
Child-heart  of  Shelley,  here  from  strife  restored, 
Remembers  not  life's  sword. 


SALT. 

O  BREATH  of  wind  and  sea, 

Bitter  and  clear, 
Now  my  faint  soul  springs  free, 

Blown  clean  from  fear  ! 

0  hard  sweet  strife,  O  sting 
Of  buffeting  salt ! 

Doubt  and  despair  take  wing, 
Failure  and  fault. 

1  dread  not  wrath  or  wrong, — 

Smile,  and  am  free, 
Strong  while  the  winds  are  strong, 
The  rocks,  the  sea. 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  615 

Heart  of  my  heart !  tho'  life 

Front  us  with  storm, 
Love  will  outlast  the  strife, 

More  pure,  more  warm. 


SE  VE\RANCE. 

THE  tide  falls,  and  the  night  falls, 
And  the  wind  blows  in  from  the  sea, 

And  the  bell  on  the  bar  it  calls  and  calls, 
And  the  wild  hawk  screams  from  his  tree. 

The  late  crane  calls  to  his  fellows  gone 

In  long  flight  over  the  sea, 
And  my  heart  with  the  crane  flies  on  and  on, 

Seeking  its  rest  and  thee. 

O  love,  the  tide  returns  to  the  strand, 

And  the  crane  flies  back  over  sea, 
But  he  brings  not  my  heart  from  his  far-off  land, 

For  he  brings  not  thee  to  me. 


ACTION. 
(A  Woman  of  Platcea  speaks.) 

I  HAVE  lived  long,  and  watched  out  many  days, 
And  seen  the  showers  fall  and  the  light  shine  down 
Equally  on  the  vile  and  righteous  head. 
I  have  lived  long,  and  served  the  gods,  and  drawn 
Small  joy  and  liberal  sorrow, — scorned  the  gods, 
And  drawn  no  less  my  little  meed  of  good, 
Suffered  my  ill  in  no  more  grievous  measure. 
I  have  been  glad — alas,  my  foolish  people, 
I  have  been  glad  with  you  !     And  ye  are  glad, 
Seeing  the  gods  in  all  things,  praising  them 
In  yon  their  lucid  heaven,  this  green  world, 
The  moving  inexorable  sea,  and  wide 


616  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Delight  of  noonday, — till  in  ignorance 

Ye  err,  your  feet  transgress,  and  the  bolt  falls  ! 

Ay,  have  I  sung,  and  dreamed  that  they  would  hear; 

And  worshipped,  and  made  offering;  it  may  be 

They  heard,  and  did  perceive,  and  were  well  pleased, — 

A  little  music  in  their  ears  perchance, 

A  grain  more  savour  to  their  nostrils,  sweet 

Tho'  scarce  accounted  of.     But  when  for  me 

The  mists  of  Acheron  have  striven  up, 

And  horror  was  shed  round  me;  when  my  knees 

Relaxed,  my  tongue  clave  speechless,  they  forgot. 

And  when  my  sharp  cry  cut  the  moveless  night, 

And  days  and  nights  my  wailings  clamoured  up 

And  beat  about  their  golden  homes,  perchance 

They  shut  their  ears.     No  happy  music  this, 

Eddying  through  their  nectar  cups  and  calm  ! 

Then  I  cried  out  against  them,  and  died  not; 

And  rose,  and  set  me  to  my  daily  tasks. 

So  all  day  long,  with  bare,  uplift  left  arm, 

Drew  out  the  strong  thread  from  the  carded  wool, 

Or  wrought  strange  figures,  lotus-buds  and  serpents, 

In  purple  on  the  himation's  saffron  fold; 

Nor  uttered  praise  with  the  slim-wristed  girls 

To  any  god,  nor  uttered  any  prayer, 

Nor  poured  out  bowls  of  wine  and  smooth  bright  oil, 

Nor  brake  and  gave  small  cakes  of  beaten  meal 

And  honey,  as  this  time,  or  such  a  god 

Required,  nor  offered  apples  summer-flushed, 

Scarlet  pomegranates,  poppy  bells,  or  doves. 

All  this  with  scorn,  and  waiting  all  day  long, 

And  night  long  with  dim  fear,  afraid  of  sleep, — 

Seeing  I  took  no  hurt  of  all  these  things, 

And  seeing  mine  eyes  were  dried  of  their  tears 

So  that  once  more  the  light  grew  sweet  for  me, 

Once  more  grew  fair  the  fields  and  valley  streams, 

I  thought  with  how  small  profit  men  take  heed 

To  worship  with  bowed  heads,  and  suppliant  hands, 

And  sacrifice,  the  everlasting  gods, 

Who  take  small  thought  of  them  to  curse  or  bless, 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  617 

Girt  with  their  purples  of  perpetual  peace  ! 

Thus  blindly  deemed  I  of  them ; — yet — and  yet — 

Have  late  well  learned  their  hate  is  swift  as  fire, 

Be  one  so  wretched  to  encounter  it ; 

Ay,  have  I  seen  a  multitude  of  good  deeds 

Fly  up  in  the  pan  like  husks,  like  husks  blown  dry. 

Hereafter  let  none  question  the  high  gods  ! 

I  questioned ;  but  these  watching  eyes  have  seen 

Actseon,  thewed  and  sinewed  like  a  god, 

God-like  for  sweet  speech  and  great  deeds,  hurled  down 

To  hideous  death — scarce  suffered  space  to  breathe 

Ere  the  wild  heart  in  his  changed  quivering  side 

Burst  with  mad  terror,  and  the  stag's  wide  eyes 

Stared  one  sick  moment  'mid  the  dog's  hot  jaws. 

Cithseron,  mother  mount,  set  steadfastly 

Deep  in  Bceotia,  past  the  utmost  roar 

Of  seas,  beyond  Corinthian  waves  withdrawn, 

Girt  with  green  vales  awake  with  brooks  or  still, 

Towers  up  'mid  lesser-browed  Boeotian  hills — 

These  couched  like  herds  secure  beneath  its  ken — 

And  watches  earth's  green  corners.     At  mid-noon 

We  of  Platsea  mark  the  sun  make  pause 

Right  over  it,  and  top  its  crest  with  pride. 

Men  of  Eleusis  look  toward  north  at  dawn 

To  see  the  long  white  fleeces  upward  roll, 

Smitten  aslant  with  saffron,  fade  like  smoke, 

And  leave  the  grey-green  dripping  glens  all  bare, 

The  drenched  slopes  open  sunward ;  slopes  wherein 

What  gods,  what  god-like  men  to  match  with  gods 

Have  roamed,  and  grown  up  mighty,  and  waxed  wise 

Under  the  law  of  him  whom  gods  and  men 

Reverence,  and  call  Cheiron !     He,  made  wise 

With  knowledge  of  all  wisdom,  had  made  wise 

Actseon,  till  there  moved  none  cunninger 

To  drive  with  might  the  javelin  forth,  or  bend 

The  corded  ebony,  save  Leto's  son. 

But  him  the  centaur  shall  behold  no  more 

With  long  stride  making  down  the  beechy  glade, 


618  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Clear-eyed,  with  firm  lips  laughing, — at  his  heels 
The  clamour  of  his  fifty  deep-tongued  hounds  ; 
Him  the  wise  centaur  shall  behold  no  more. 

I  have  lived  long,  and  watched  out  many  days, 

And  am  well  sick  of  watching.     Three  days  since, 

I  had  gone  out  upon  the  slopes  for  herbs, 

Snake-root,  and  subtle  gums  ;  and  when  the  light 

Fell  slantwise  through  the  upper  glens,  and  missed 

The  sunk  ravines,  I  came  where  all  the  hills 

Circle  the  valley  of  Gargaphian  streams. 

Reach  beyond  reach  all  down  the  valley  gleamed, — 

Thick  brandies  ringed  them.     Scarce  a  bowshot  past 

My  platan,  thro'  the  woven  leaves  low-hung, 

Trembling  in  meshes  of  the  woven  sun, 

A  yellow-sanded  pool,  shallow  and  clear, 

Lay  sparkling,  brown  about  the  further  bank 

From  scarlet-berried  ash-trees  hanging  over. 

Then  suddenly  the  shallows  brake  awake 

With  laughter  and  light  voices,  and  I  saw 

Where  Artemis,  white  goddess  incorrupt, 

Bane  of  swift  beasts,  and  deadly  for  straight  shaft 

Unswerving,  from  a  coppice  not  far  off, 

Came  to  the  pool  from  the  hither  bank  to  bathe. 

Amid  her  maiden  company  she  moved, 

Their  cross-thonged  yellow  buskins  scattered  off, 

Unloosed  their  knotted  hair;  and  thus  the  pool 

Received  them  stepping,  shrinking,  down  to  it. 

There  they  nocked  white,  'and  splashed  the  water-drops 

On  rounded  breast  and  shoulder  snowier 

Than  the  washed  clouds  athwart  the  morning's  blue, — 

Fresher  than  river  grasses  which  the  herds 

Pluck  from  the  river  in  the  burning  noons. 

Their  tresses  on  the  summer  wind  they  flung ; 

And  some  a  shining  yellow  fleece  let  fall 

For  the  sun's  envy ;  others  with  white  hands 

Lifted  a  glooming  wealth  of  locks  more  dark 

Than  deepest  wells,  but  purple  in  the  sun. 


PROFESSOR  C.  G.  D.  ROBERTS.  619 

And  she,  their  mistress,  of  the  heart  unstormed, 
Stood  taller  than  they  all,  supreme,  and  still, 
Perfectly  fair  like  day,  and  crowned  with  hair 
The  colour  of  nipt  beech-leaves ;  ay,  such  hair 
Was  mine  in  years  when  I  was  such  as  these. 
I  let  it  fall  to  cover  me,  or  coiled 
Its  soft  thick  coils  about  my  throat  and  arms ; 
Its  colour  like  nipt  beech-leaves,  tawny  brown, 
But  in  the  sun  a  fountain  of  live  gold. 

Even  as  thus  they  played,  and  some  lithe  maids 

Upreached  white  arms  to  grasp  the  berried  ash, 

And,  plucking  the  bright  bunches,  shed  them  wide 

By  red  ripe  handf uls,  not  far  off  I  saw 

With  long  stride  making  down  the  beechy  glade, 

Clear-eyed,  with  firm  lips  laughing,  at  his  heels 

The  clamour  of  his  fifty  deep-tongued  hounds, 

Actseon. '   I  beheld  him  not  far  off, 

But  unto  bath  and  bathers  hid  from  view, 

Being  beyond  that  mighty  rock  whereon 

His  wont  was  to  lie  stretched  at  dip  of  eve, 

When  frogs  are  loud  amid  the  tall-plumed  sedge 

In  marshy  spots  about  Asopus  bank, — 

Deeming  his  life  was  very  sweet,  his  day 

A  pleasant  one,  the  peopled  breadths  of  earth 

Most  fair,  and  fair  the  shining  tracts  of  sea ; 

Green  solitudes,  and  broad  low-lying  plains 

Made  brown  with  frequent  labours  of  men's  hands, 

And  salt,  blue,  fruitless  waters.     But  this  mount, 

Cithseron,  bosomed  deep  in  soundless  hills, 

Its  fountained  vales,  its  nights  of  starry  calm, 

Its  high  chill  dawns,  its  long-drawn  golden  days, 

Was  dearest  to  him.     Here  he  dreamed  high  dreams, 

And  felt  within  his  sinews  strength  to  strive 

Where  strife  was  sorest  and  to  overcome, 

And  in  his  heart  the  thought  to  do  great  deeds, 

With  power  in  all  ways  to  accomplish  them. 

For  had  not  he  done  well  to  men,  and  done 

Well  to  the  gods  1     Therefore  he  stood  secure. 


620  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

But  him, — for  him — Ah  that  these  eyes  should  see  ! — 
Approached  a  sudden  stumbling  in  his  ways  ! 
Not  yet,  not  yet  he  knew  a  god's  fierce  wrath, 
Nor  wist  of  that  swift  vengeance  lying  in  wait. 

And  now  he  came  upon  a  slope  of  sward 

Against  the  pool.     With  startled  cry  the  maids 

Shrank  clamouring  round  their  mistress,  or  made  flight 

To  covert  in  the  hazel  thickets.     She 

Stirred  not ;  but  pitiless  anger  paled  her  eyes, 

Intent  with  deadly  purpose.     He,  amazed, 

Stood  with  his  head  thrust  forward,  while  his  curls 

Sun-lit  lay  glorious  on  his  mighty  neck, — 

Let  fall  his  bow,  and  clanging  spear,  and  gazed 

Dilate  with  ecstasy  ;  nor  marked  the  dogs 

Hush  their  deep  tongues,  draw  close,  and  ring  him  round, 

And  fix  upon  him  strange,  red  hungry  eyes, 

And  crouch  to  spring.     This  for  a  moment.     Then 

It  seemed  his  strong  knees  faltered,  and  he  sank. 

Then  I  cried  out, — -for  straight  a  shuddering  stag 

Sprang  one  wild  leap  over  the  dogs ;  but  they 

Fastened  upon  his  flanks  with  a  long  yell, 

And  reached  his  throat ;  and  that  proud  head  went  down 

Beneath  their  wet,  red  fangs  and  reeking  jaws. 

I  have  lived  long,  and  watched  out  many  days, 
Yet  have  not  seen  that  aught  is  sweet  save  life, 
Nor  learned  that  life  hath  other  end  than  death. 
Thick  horror  like  a  cloud  had  veiled  my  sight, 
That  for  a  space  I  saw  not,  and  my  ears 
Were  shut  from  hearing ;  but  when  sense  grew  clear 
Once  more,  I  only  saw  the  vacant  pool 
Unrippled, — only  saw  the  dreadful  sward, 
Where  dogs  lay  gorged,  or  moved  in  fitful  search, 
Questing  uneasily ;  and  some  far  up 
The  slope,  and  some  at  the  low  water's  edge, 
With  snouts  set  high  in  air  and  straining  throats 
Uttered  keen  howls  that  smote  the  echoing  hills. 
They  missed  their  master's  form,  nor  understood 


ELIZABETH  GOSTUYCKE  ROBERTS.       621 

Where  was  the  voice  they  loved,  the  hand  that  reared. 
And  some  lay  watching  by  the  spear  and  bow 
Flung  down. 

And  now  upon  the  homeless  pack 

And  paling  stream  arose  a  noiseless  wind 

Out  of  the  yellow  west  awhile,  and  stirred 

The  branches  down  the  valley ;  then  blew  off 

To  eastward  toward  the  long  grey  straits,  and  died 

Into  the  dark,  beyond  the  utmost  verge. 


ELIZABETH  GOSTUYCKE  ROBERTS. 

A  SECRET  SONG. 

OH  Snow-bird,  Snow-bird ! 

Welcome  thy  note  when  maple  boughs  are  bare  ; 

Thy  merry  twitter,  thy  emphatic  call 
Like  silver  trumpets  pierce  the  freezing  air 

What  time  the  radiant  flakes  begin  to  fall. 
We  know  thy  secret  !     When  the  day  grows  dim, 

Far  from  the  homes  that  thou  hast  cheered  so  long, 
Thy  chirping  changes  to  a  twilight  hyrnn  ! 

Oh  Snow-bird,  Snow-bird,  wherefor  hide  thy  song  ? 

Oh  Snow-bird,  Snow-bird ! 

Is  it  a  song  of  sorrow  none  may  know, 

An  aching  memory  ?     Nay,  too  glad  the  note  ; 
Untouched  by  knowledge  of  our  human  woe 

Clearly  thy  crystal  flutings  fall  and  float. 
We  hear  thy  tender  ecstasy,  and  cry  : 

"  Lend  us  thy  gladness  that  can  brave  the  chill 
Under  the  splendours  of  the  winter  sky, 

Oh  Snow-bird,  Snow-bird,  carol  to  us  still  ! 


622  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

THE  KEV.  P.  G.   SCOTT. 

[Born  1861.] 

TIME. 

I  SAW  Time  in  his  workshop  carving  faces  ; 
Scattered  around  his  tools  lay,  blunting  griefs, 
Sharp  cares  that  cut  out  deeply  in  reliefs 

Of  light  and  shade ;  sorrows  that  smooth  the  traces 

Of  what  were  smiles.     Nor  yet  without  fresh  graces 
His  handiwork,  for  ofttimes  rough  were  ground 
And  polished,  oft  the  pinched  made  smooth  and  round; 

The  calm  look,  too,  the  impetuous  fire  replaces. 

Long  time  I  stood  and  watched,  with  hideous  grin 
He  took  each  heedless  face  between  his  knees, 
And  graved  and  scarred  and  bleached  with  boiling 
tears. 

I  wondering  turned  to  go,  when,  lo!  my  skin 
Feels  crumpled,  and  in  glass  my  own  face  sees 
Itself  all  changed,  scared,  careworn,  white  with  years. 


KNO  WLEDGE. 

THEY  were  Islanders,  our  fathers  were, 

And  they  watched  the  encircling  seas, 
And  their  hearts  drank  in  the  ceaseless  stir, 

And  the  freedom  of  the  breeze ; 
Till  they  chafed  at  their  narrow  bounds 

And  longed  for  the  sweep  of  the  main, 
And  they  fretted  and  fumed  like  hounds 

Held  in  within  sight  of  the  plain, 
And  the  play 
And  the  prey. 

So  they  built  them  ships  of  wood,  and  sailed 

To  many  an  unknown  coast; 
They  braved  the  storm  and  battles  hailed, 

And  danger  they  loved  most ; 


THE  REV.  F.  G.  SCOTT.  623 

Till  the  tiny  ships  of  wood 

Grew  powerful  on  the  globe, 
And  the  new-found  lands  for  good 
They  wrapped  in  a  wondrous  robe 
Of  bold  design, 
Our  brave  ensign. 

And  islanders  yet  in  a  way  are  we, 

Our  knowledge  is  still  confined, 
And  we  hear  the  roar  of  encircling  sea 

To  be  crossed  in  the  ship  of  the  mind; 
And  we  dream  of  lands  afar, 

Unknown,  unconquered  yet, 
And  we  chafe  at  the  bounds  there  are, 

And  our  spirits  fume  and  fret 
For  the  prize 
Of  the  wise. 

But  we'll  never  do  aught,  I  know,  unless 

We  are  brave  as  our  sires  of  old, 
And  face  like  them  the  bitterness 

Of  the  battle  and  storm  and  cold;      • 
Unless  we  boldly  stand, 

When  men  would  hold  us  back, 
With  the  helm-board  in  our  hand, 

And  our  eyes  to  the  shining  track 
Of  what  may  be 
Beyond  the  sea. 

There  are  rocks  out  there  in  that  wide,  wide  sea, 

'Neath  many  a  darkling  stream, 
And  souls  that  once  sailed  out  bold  and  free 

Have  been  carried  away  in  a  dream; 
For  they  never  came  back  again — 

On  the  deeps  the  ships  were  lost; 
But  in  spite  of  the  danger  and  pain, 

The  ocean  has  still  to  be  crossed, 
And  only  they  do 
Who  are  brave  and  true. 


624  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

BRITISH  WAR  SONG. 

"  WARS  and  rumours  of  wars  " — the  clouds  lower  over  the 

sea, 

And  a  man'must  now  be  a  man,  if  ever  a  man  can  be; 
"  Wars  and  rumours  of  wars  " — a  cry  from  the  flaming 

East, 
For  the  vultures  are  gathered  together,  and  the  lions 

roar  over  the  feast: 

War  !     Shall  we  flinch  !     Shall  we  tremble !     Shall  we 

shrink  like  cowards  from  the  fray  ? 
Better  all  Britons  were   dead  than  their  glory  passed 

away ! 
The  clouds  may  be  dark  and  lowering,  the  storm  may  be 

loud  and  long, 
But  the  hearts  of  our  men  are  true,  and  the  arms  of  our 

men  are  strong. 

From  the  thousand  years  of  glory,  from  the  grave  of 

heroes  gone, 
Comes  a  voice  on  the  breath  of  the  storm,  and  a  power 

to  spur  us  on  : 

A  man  must  now  be  a  man,  and  every  man  be  true, 
For  the  grave  that  covers  our  glory  shall  cover  each 

Briton  too. 


ESTRA  NGEMENT. 

Do  you  remember  how,  one  autumn  night, 

We  sat  upon  the  rocks  and  watched  the  sea 
In  dreamlike  silence,  while  the  moonlight  fell 
On  you  and  me? 

How,  as  we  lingered  musing,  side  by  side, 

A  cold,  white  mist  crept  down  and  hid  the  sea 
And  dimmed  the  moon,  and  how  the  air  grew  chill 
Round  you  and  me  ? 


PHILLIPS  STEWART.  625 

The  mist  and  chill  of  that  drear  autumn  night. 

When  we  sat  silent  looking  on  the  sea, 
I  often  think  has  never  passed  away 
From  you  and  me. 


PHILLIPS  STEWART. 

[Born  1863.] 

HOPE. 

IN  shadowy  calm  the  boat 
Sleeps  by  the  dreaming  oar  ; 

The  green  hills  are  afloat 
Beside  the  silver  shore. 

Youth  hoists  the  white  winged  sail, 
Love  takes  the  longing  oar — 

The  oft-told  fairy  talc 
Beside  the  silver  shore. 

Soft  lip  to  lip,  and  heart 
To  heart,  and  hand  to  hand, 

And  wistful  eyes,  depart 
Unto  another  strand. 

And  lovely  as  a  star 

They  tremble  o'er  the  wave, 
With  eager  wings  afar, 

Unto  the  joys  they  crave. 

In  a  sweet  trance  they  fare 
Unto  the  wind  and  rain, 

With  wind-tossed  waves  of  hair, 
And  ne'er  return  again. 

And  at  the  drifting  side 
Changed  faces  in  the  deep 

They  see,  and  changing  tide, 
Like  phantoms  in  a  sleep. 


626  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Slow  hands  furl  the  torn  sail 
Without  one  silver  gleam, 

And,  sad  and  wan  and  pale, 
They  gaze  into  a  dream. 


ALONE. 

THE  fire  flits  on  the  walls 
And  glitters  on  the  pane: 

To  Memory  recalls 
The  happy  past  again. 
I  sit  alone. 

A  tender  dreamful  light 
O'ercasts  the  fading  green; 

Amid  the  leaves'  sad  flight 
And  Autumn's  golden  sheen, 
I  roam  alone. 

Alas,  the  wild  winds  sweep 
O'er  Winter's  bosom  white, 

Like  moans  of  restless  sleep, 
Or  hollow  sounds  of  night. 
I  sigh  alone. 

The  hyacinth  doth  peep 

And  spring-time  lilies  bloom 

O'er  dearest  ones  asleep 

Within  the  dreamless  tomb. 
I  weep  alone. 

The  distant  church-bell  sounds 
O'er  fragrant  meadows  broad 

And  silent  sleepers'  mounds; 
All  pass  to  worship  God — 
I  walk  alone. 


BARR  Y  STRA  TON.  627 

Soft  doth  the  music  steal 

Out  o'er  the  flowering  sod  ; 
No  grief  these  sleepers  feel 

For  evermore.     O  God, 
I  am  alone. 


AT   SEA. 

UPON  the  shore  stood  friends, 
Who  gazed  upon  the  barque  and  little  crew 
Till  all  had  faded  in  the  golden  west, 
And  darkness  settled  on  the  lonely  sea. 
Then  whispered  they,  with  voices  low  and  sad, 

"  Will  they  return  to  vine-clad  Spain,  their  home, 
Or  perish  in  some  far-off  clime  alone  1 " 
Far  o'.er  the  sea  the  little  vessel  passed 
Till  all  grew  tired  of  the  moaning  waves, 
And  at  the  dismal  creaking  of  the  masts, 
The  hollow  beating  of  the  sails ;  they  turned 
Their  longing  eyes  far  o'er  the  restless  sea, 
And  thought  of  home,  and  friends,  and  vine-clad  Spain. 
In  dreams  the  tender  voice  of  Philomel 
Their  souls  did  soothe,  and  wandered  'neath  the  moon 
With  love-lit  eyes,  fair  maids,  whose  silvery  laugh 
Stole  o'er  the  slumbering  sense  like  music  sweet. 


BARRY  STRATON. 

THE  ROBIN'S  MADRIGAL. 

SANG  a  robin  on  a  morn, 

Joying  in  the  growing  light ; 

To  my  soul  the  notes  were  born, 

And  my  soul  could  read  them  right. 

This  is  what  the  robin  said 
In  the  elm  overhead — 


628  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

"  Haste  from  southern  sultry  skies, 

Sweet  love  !  Pretty  love  ! 
Here  a  fairer  summer  lies, 

Sweet  love  !  Pretty  love  ! 
Wintry  gloom  has  passed  away 

Soon  shall  burst  in  bloom  the  May. 
Soon  shall  we  love's  summer  prove, 

Bright,  with  happy  skies  above, 
Love's  long 'holiday. 

Winter  tarries  not  for  long, 

Sweet  love  !  Pretty  love  ! 
Hope  than  doubt  is  far  more  strong, 

Sweet  love  !  Pretty  love ! 
Here  within  the  scented  shade 

Shall  a  bonnie  home  be  made; 
Here  my  songs  shall  cherish  thee, 

Here  our  love  shall  constant  be, 
And  not  long  delayed." 

Thus  the  robin  sang  his  lay 

On  the  budding  bough  above, 
Joyous  of  the  coming  May 

When  pink  blossoms  wake  to  love 
Thus  my  heart  the  livelong  day, 

Sweet  love  !  Pretty  love  ! 
Sings  for  thee  this  springtide  gay, 

Love's  long  holiday. 


FROM  THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  BRIDGE. 

I  KNOW  the  secrets  of  thy  streams, 
The  dusky  entrances  which  lead 
To  quiet  haunts,  where  herons  feed, 
Where  daylight  pauses,  sleeps  and  dreams. 
Within  this  circling  woodland  mere 
The  swollen  spring-tide  swamps  the  grass 


ARTHUR  WEIR.  629 

Save  where  the  scattered  hummocks  rise, 
And  over  fields  in  harvest  bare 
The  waters  eddy  everywhere, 
And  little  mist-puffs  pause  or  pass 
Like  cloudlets  in  thy  mirrored  skies. 
Here  where  the  sunken  weed-mesh  parts, 
Wax- white  lilies  and  golden  hearts 
Sleep  on  the  stream, — fair  spirits,  they, 
Of  wooing  beams  that,  on  a  day, 
Sighed  through  the  maple  boughs  above, 
And  died  upon  thy  breast  for  love  ! 

This  is  the  utter  lust  of  sight — 
This  scene  of  land  and  water  wed — 
Lit  by  the  morning's  sloping  light, 
Through  shifting  screens  of  alders  shed, 
And  mingling  boughs  of  arching  trees, 
Which  rather  hush  than  voice  the  breeze. 
The  lisping  ripples  in  the  reeds, 
The  heron's  foot-fall  in  the  flood, 
These,  only,  mar  the  quietude, 
Save  when  a  brown  bee  homeward  speeds 
Or  darting,  gleaming  fishes  rise 
To  feed  on  circling  gnats  and  flies 
Made  slumbery  by  the  solitude. 


ARTHUR  WEIR. 

[Born  1864.] 

L'ORDRE  DE  BON  TEMPS. 

WHEN  Champlain  with  his  faithful  band 

Came  o'er  the  stormy  wave 
To  dwell  within  this  lonely  land, 

Their  hearts  were  blithe  as  brave ; 
And  winter,  by  their  mirth  beguiled, 

Forgot  his  sterner  mood, 


630  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

As  by  the  prattling  of  a  child 
A  churl  may  be  subdued. 

Among  the  company  there  came 

A  dozen  youths  of  rank, 
Who  in  their  eager  search  for  fame 

From  no  adventure  shrank  ; 
But,  with  the  lightness  of  their  race 

That  hardship  laughs  to  scorn, 
Pursued  the  pleasures  of  the  chase 

Till  night  from  early  morn. 

And  soon  their  leader,  full  of  mirth, 

And  politic  withal — 
Well  knowing  that  no  spot  on  earth 

Could  hold  them  long  in  thrall, 
Unless  into  their  company, 

Its  duties  and  its  sport, 
Were  introduced  the  pageantry 

And  etiquette  of  court — 

Enrolled  them  in  a  titled  band, 

L'ordre  de  bon  Temps,  named 
First  Knighthood's  grade  for  which  this  land 

Of  Canada  is  famed. 
Each  one  in  turn  Grand  Master  was — 

At  close  of  day  released — 
His  duty  to  maintain  the  laws, 

And  furnish  forth  a  feast. 

Filled  with  a  pardonable  pride 

In  nobles  wont  to  dwell, 
Each  with  his  predecessor  vied 

In  bounty  to  excel, 
And  thus  it  was  the  festive  board 

With  beaver,  otter,  deer, 
And  fish  and  fowl  was  richly  stored, 

Throughout  the  changing  year. 

At  mid-day — for  our  Sires  of  old 
Dined  when  the  sun  was  high — 


ARTHUR  WEIR.  631 

To  where  the  cloth  was  spread,  behold 

These  merry  youths  draw  nigh, 
Each  bearing  on  a  massy  tray 

Some  dainty  for  the  feast, 
While  the  Grand  Master  leads  the  way, 

Festivity's  high  priest ! 

Then  seated  round  the  banquet  board, 

Afar  from  friends  and  home, 
They  drank  from  goblets  freely  poured 

To  happier  days  to  come. 
And  once  again,  in  story,  shone 

The  sun,  that  erst  in  France 
Was  wont,  in  days  long  past  and  gone, 

Amid  the  vines  to  dance. 

Still  later,  when  the  sun  had  set, 

And  round  the  fire  they  drew 
To  sing,  or  tell  a  tale  ere  yet 

Too  old  the  evening  grew, 
He  who  had  ruled  them  for  the  day 

His  sceptre  did  resign, 
And  drink  to  his  successor's  sway 

A  brimming  cup  of  wine. 


AT  RAINBO  W  LAKE. 

THERE  is  a  spot,  far  from  the  world's  uproar, 

Amid  great  mountains, 
Where  softly  sleeps  a  lake,  to  whose  still  shore 

Steal  silvery  fountains, 
That  hide  beneath  the  leafy  underwood, 
And  blend  their  voices  with  the  solitude. 

Save  where  the  beaver-meadow's  olive  sheen 

In  sunlight  glimmers, 
On  every  side,  a  mass  of  weaving  green, 

The  forest  shimmers 

And  oft  re-echoes  with  the  black  bear's  tread, 
That  silences  the  song  birds  overhead. 


632  YOUNGER  CANADIAN  POETS. 

Here  thickly  droops  the  moss  from  patriarch  trees, 

And  loons  fly  wailing. 
Here  king-bird's  screams  come  hoarsely  down  the  breeze, 

And  hawks  are  sailing 

Above  the  trees.     Here  Nature  dwells  alone, 
Of  man  unknowing,  and  to  man  unknown. 

Smiling,  she  rises  when  the  morning  air, 

The  dawn  just  breaking, 
Bids  the  still  woodlands  for  the  day  prepare, 

And  Life,  awaking, 

Welcomes  the  sun,  whose  bride,  the  morn,  is  kissed 
And,  blushing,  lays  aside  her  veil  of  mist. 

Here  Nature  with  each  passing  hour  reveals 

Peculiar  graces : 
At  noonday  she  grows  languid,  and  then  steals 

To  shady  places. 

And  revels  in  their  coolness,  at  her  feet 
A  stream,  that  fills  with  music  her  retreat. 

At  eve  she  comes,  and,  blushing  like  a  maid, 

Unrobes  in  shadows, 
Bathes  in  the  lake,  and  wanders  through  the  glade 

And  o'er  the  meadows. 

From  her  dank  locks,  wherever  she  doth  pass, 
The  diamond  dew-drops  dripping  to  the  grass. 

And  then  she  sleeps ;  when  o'er  the  lake's  calm  tide 

The  moon  comes  stealing, 
And  draws  from  her  the  veil  of  night  aside, 

Her  charms  revealing, 

While  silent  stars  keep  ceaseless  watch  above, 
And  all  the  earth  breathes  peace  and  rest  and  love. 


IN  ABSENCE. 

SLEEP,  dearest,  sleep  beside  the  murmuring  sea  ; 
Sleep,  dearest,  slepp,  and  bright  dreams  compass  thee. 


ARTHUR  WEIR.  633 

My  sleepless  thoughts  a  guard  of  love  shall  be 
Around  thy  couch  and  bid  thee  dream  of  me. 
Sleep,  Bright  Eyes,  sleep. 

Sleep,  dearest,  sleep,  the  slumber  of  the  pure ; 
Sleep,  dearest,  sleep,  in  angels'  care  secure. 
Evil  itself  thy  beauty  would  allure 
To  cease  from  ill  and  make  thy  joyance  sure. 
Sleep,  Bright  Eyes,  sleep. 

Sleep,  clearest,  sleep ;  in  slumber  thou  art  mine  ; 
Sleep,  dearest,  sleep ;  our  souls  still  intertwine. 
Yon  radiant  star  that  on  thy  couch  doth  shine 
Bears  from  my  lips  a  kiss  to  lay  on  thine. 
Sleep,  Bright  Eyes,  sleep. 


APPENDIX    I. 


MRS  TURNBULL'S  study  of  Lanier  will  be  better  appreciated 
by  the  light  of  the  following  data  summarised  from  President 
Gates's  paper  : — 

Sidney  Lanier  was  descended  from  a  Huguenot  family, 
whose  earlier  members  were  famous  at  the  court  of  the 
Stuarts  for  their  gifts  of  music  and  love  of  art,  transplanted 
to  Virginiain  1716.  Born  at  Macon,  Georgia,  in  1842,  Sidney 
early  showed  a  passionate  fondness  for  music  and  wonder 
ful  powers  as  a  musician. 

At  fourteen  he  entered  Oglethorpe  College  as  a  sopho 
more,  graduated  in  1860,  and  held  the  position  of  tutor  at 
the  college  until  the  outbreak  of  the  rebellion.  The  first 
call  to  arms,  in  April,  1861,  found  him  marching  toward 
Virginia  with  the  first  regiment  that  left  his  State.  He 
and  his  dearly  loved  younger  brother,  Clifford,  enlisted  as 
privates.  They  were  tent  companions,  and  three  times 
Sidney  declined  promotion  because  it  would  have  rendered 
necessary  their  separation. 

After  three  campaigns  together  they  were  at  last  separ 
ated,  and  each  was  placed  in  command  of  a  privateer. 
Captured  in  an  attempt  to  run  the  blockade,  Sidney  was  for 
five  months  a  prisoner  at  Point  Lookout.  His  flute,  his 
inseparable  companion  in  his  army  life,  he  had  slipped  up 
his  sleeve  as  he  entered  the  prison ;  and  with  it  the  boy 
prisoner  made  many  friends. 

His  prison  experience  is  recorded  in  his  only  novel,  Tiger 
Lilies,  written  and  sent  to  the  press  within  three  weeks,  in 
1867— a  story  now  out  of  print,  but  described  as  "  luxuriant, 
unpruned,  yet  giving  rich  promise  of  the  poet,"  abounding  in 
evidences  of  a  fertile  imagination  and  of  high  ideals  of  art. 

Released  from  prison  a  few  days  before  Lee  surrendered, 


636  APPENDIX  L 

he  reached  home,  emaciated  and  feeble,  only  in  time  to 
witness  his  mother's  death  from  consumption.  Congestion 
of  the  lungs  seized  on  him  then,  and  he  never  afterward 
knew  vigorous  health.  Indeed,  from  this  time  his  life  was 
a  prolonged  struggle  with  consumption. 

For  two  years  he  faithfully  discharged  the  humble  duties  of 
clerk  in  a  shop,  at  Montgomery,  Alabama.  In  1 867  he  became 
principal  of  an  academy  at  Prattville,  and  a  few  weeks  later 
he  married  Miss  Mary  Day.  The  marriage  was  a  most  con 
genial  one. 

Before  the  first  year  of  his  married  life  had  passed,  a 
violent  haemorrhage  from  the  lungs  forced  him  to  give  up 
his  position  as  principal  of  the  school  of  Prattville.  Yielding 
to  the  wishes  of  his  father,  a  lawyer  who  still  practises  at 
Macon,  Georgia,  he  settled  at  that  place,  and  for  five  years 
studied  and  practised  law.  The  spring  and  summer  of  1870 
brought  an  alarming  decline  and  a  distressing  cough.  Most 
pronounced  symptoms  of  consumption,  in  1872,  drove  him  to 
New  York  for  medical  assistance,  and  later  to  Texas  for  a 
change  of  air. 

In  December  1873  he  found  in  Baltimore  the  opportunities 
for  broader  study  which  he  desired  ;  and,  after  the  fullest 
deliberation  in  that  correspondence  with  his  father  of  which 
we  have  seen  a  part,  he  began  a  life  of  systematic  study, 
supporting  himself  meantime  by  filling  the  place  of  first 
flute  for  the  Peabody  Symphony  Concerts.  It  was  a 
courageous  struggle,  this  long-continued  effort  to  support  his 
wife  and  children  with  pen  and  flute  by  such  work  as  he 
had  strength  to  do  between  frequent  hemorrhages. 

At  Baltimore  he  went  in  for  an  eager  and  enthusiastic 
course  of  study  in  Anglo-Saxon  and  in  English  literature. 
These  might  be  styled  his  professional  studies,  since  they 
were  intimately  connected  with  his  own  improvement  in  his 
chosen  art,  poetry.  But  he  also  read  eagerly  along  lines  of 
natural  science,  philology,  metaphysics,  and  art.  He 
sought  to  make  himself  the  full  man,  whose  mind  should  be 
stored  with  well-ordered  knowledge  of  all  that  concerned  his 
time.  He  saw  clearly  what  so  many  poetasters  seem  never 
to  suspect,  that  a  great  poet  must  know  first  of  all.  In  his 
marsh  songs  there  is  evidence  of  a  breadth  of  scientific 
thought  that  is  cosmic  in  its  far-reaching  sweep  and  in  its 
suggestions  of  orderly  power  and  unchanging  relations,  alike 
in  the  natural  and  in  the  spiritual  world.  No  poet  of  our 
time,  unless  it  be  Tennyson,  has  written  verse  which  is  at 
once  so  instinct  with  poetic  beauty  and  fire,  and  so  crowded 


APPENDIX  I.  637 

with  suggestions  of  the  scientific  theories  of  our  time.  These 
poems  demand  and  repay  careful  study.  They  breathe  the 
keenest  delight  in  Nature,  and  yet  inanimate  Nature  and 
human  life  are  at  one  in  them,  not  because  the  poet's  moods 
are  mirrored  in  Nature,  not  because  he  has  formally  re 
solved  to  see  human  life  in  symbols,  but  because  soul  life 
is  to  him  so  emphatically  the  source  and  the  support  of  all 
life  that  the  growths  and  phases  of  Nature  are  not  only 
interpreters  of  spiritual  and  aesthetic  truth,  but  naturally  and 
spontaneously  speak  that  language  and  share  in  and  express 
that  life. 

The  years  from  1873  to  1876  he  spent  in  Baltimore,  alone, 
his  family  remaining  in  the  South.  His  flute  and  his  pen 
supported  them. 

The  fact  that  Lanier  had  been  in  the  Confederate  army 
lent  an  especial  propriety  to  Bayard  Taylor's  suggestion  that 
he  be  chosen  to  write  the  words  for  the  cantata  at  the  open 
ing  of  the  Centennial  Celebration  at  Philadelphia,  when  a 
reunited  North  and  South  first  learned  to  know  each  other 
in  peace.  - 

In  the  summer  of  1876  his  family  joined  him  in  West 
Chester,  Pennsylvania,  but  symptoms  so  alarming  followed  a 
severe  cold  that  his  physicians  warned  him  that  he  could  not 
live  until  spring  unless  he  sought  a  warmer  climate.  The 
winter  of  1877  was  passed  in  Florida. 

His  devoted  study  of  English  literature,  continued  through 
all  these  years,  now  bore  fruit  in  a  course  of  lectures  upon 
Elizabethan  verse,  delivered  to  a  parlour  class  of  thirty 
ladies.  The  warm  praise  which  these  lectures  received  led 
to  a  more  ambitious  course  upon  Shakespeare.  The  lovers 
of  art  and  letters  in  Baltimore  rallied  to  the  support  of  these 
lectures  with  something  of  that  generous  desire  to  aid 
struggling  genius,  mingled  with  a  willingness  to  be  known 
as  the  discerning  early  patrons  of  a  nascent  reputation, 
which  marked  Carlyle's  first  lecture  courses  in  London.  The 
undertaking  was  much  talked  of,  and  the  lecturer  received 
unlimited  encomiums  ;  but  the  course  was  so  managed  that 
it  yielded  little  or  no  money  to  the  needy  poet. 

It  had  one  result  that  was  most  welcome  to  him,  however. 
President  Gilman  was  led  by  it  to  offer  to  Lanier  a  lecture 
ship  on  English  literature  in  Johns  Hopkins  University.  The 
official  notification  of  his  appointment  reached  him  on  his 
birthday,  in  1879,  and  brought  with  it  the  assurance  of 
a  fixed  income,  however  small,  for  the  first  time  since  his 
marriage  twelve  years  before. 

2T 


638  APPENDIX  I. 

This  welcome  recognition  of  his  literary  powers  found  the 
poet  exhausted  by  another  haemorrhage,  his  body  so  enfeebled 
that  it  could  not  hold  prisoner  for  a  much  longer  time  the 
rare  soul  that  had  so  valiantly  struggled  against  adversity. 
Still  in  his  feebleness  he  did  the  full  work  of  a  strong  man. 
Occasional  poems  were  printed,  beautiful  and  carefully 
finished.  Within  six  weeks,  in  the  summer  of  1879,  he  wrote 
The  Science  of  English  Verse,  a  volume  which  in  itself  merits 
an  essay.  Beyond  question  the  English  language  contains 
no  other  such  suggestive,  artistic,  yet  scientific  analysis  of 
the  "  formal  element  in  poetry,"  of  the  effects  of  vowel  and 
consonant  sequences,  and  of  the  acoustic  basis  and  the 
capabilities  of  the  differing  rhythms  and  measures  in  poetic 
composition. 

And  now,  while  the  last  clear  flames  of  his  life  are  burning 
out  in  song  and  in  poetic  prose  so  perfect  that  we  can 
scarcely  credit  the  record  of  the  bodily  weakness  in  which 
such  work  was  done,  let  us  turn  from  the  history  of  the 
poet's  life  to  note  some  characteristics  of  his  poetry. 

With  Lanier  man  and  personality  and  will  are  so  intensely 
real,  and  so  constantly  underlie  his  thought,  that  his  most 
beautiful  descriptions  of  Nature  take  the  form  of  successive 
personifications,  and  Nature,  beautiful  as  she  is,  becomes 
only  the  antithesis  which  gives  a  sharper  emphasis  to  man's 
power  of  self-direction,  self-determination,  personality;  and 
personality  is  so  supremely  the  all-important  fact  in  the 
universe  that  all  animate  and  inanimate  objects  come  into 
the  scope  of  his  vision  personified  and  related  to  himself. 

His  sense  of  beauty  and  his  heart  of  love  fill  him  with 
a  passionate  tenderness  toward  all  that  is  beautiful  in  Nature. 
He  shows  again  and  again  an  overmastering  love  of  broad, 
free  spaces — the  marshes,the  sea,  the  night  sky. 

"  Oh,  is  it  not  to  widen  man,  stretches  the  sea?  " 

And  he  has  the  gift  of  setting  all  his  work  at  times  in  such 
wide,  cosmic  views  of  Nature  as  flash  upon  the  reader  broad 
generalisations  and  far-reaching  relations  whose  radiant 
luminousness  has  been  compressed  into  a  phrase  or  a 
verse. 

Beyond  any  other  poet  Lanier  shows  a  love  for  plant  life 
and  trees.  Does  he  love  them  becaxise  they  live  and  grow, 
yet  never  make  capricious  or  wilful  choice  of  evil,  but  grow 
steadily  to  their  appointed  form,  breathing  out  a  quiet 
beauty  ? 

•'  To  company  with  large,  amiable  trees" 


APPENDIX  I.  639 

was  a  delight  and  a  necessity  with  him.  Early  and  late  he 
sought  thenj. 

"  In  my  sleep,  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 

Of  the  live-oaks,  the  marsh  and  the  main  ; 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my  sleep. 

I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live  oaks,  to  hide 
In  your  gospelling  glooms." 

Again  and  again  the  praise  of  trees  and  of  forests  recurs 
in  his  verse,  like  the  delicious  veins  of  rich,  penetrating 
forest  odours  that  cross  your  pathway  in  mountain  travel, 
lending  an  added  charm  to  the  beauty  of  the  scenery. 

"The  wood  smells,  that  swiftly  but  now  brought  breath 
From  the  heaven -side  bank  of  the  river  of  death." 

Here  is  the  secret  of  the  charm  of  a  sunset  forest  scene 
caught  in  a  couplet : 

"And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood -aisle  doth  seem 
Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream." 

He  speaks  of 

"  Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noonday  fire, 
Wildwood  privacies — closets  of  lone  desire." 

"  Pure  with  the  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  thro'  the  wood 
Cool,  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good — " 

The  presence  of  trees  was  a  ministration  to  his  soul.  He 
sought  the  forest  for  refreshment  as  a  lover  seeks  the  sight 
of  his  lady's  face.  It  is  as  if  his  soul  in  some  pre-existent 
state  had  plighted  troth  with  a  hamadryad !  Hear  him  as 
he  lifts  the  curtain  of  moss  and  slips  in  among  the  live  oaks, 
away  from  carking  cares : 

"So, 

Affable  live-oak,  leaning  low — 

Thus,  with  your  favour — soft,  with  a  reverent  hand, 
Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  Land, 
Bending  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
Oa  the  firm-packed  sand, 
Free." 

And  the  passionate  purity  of  his  forest  thoughts  is  seen  in 
such  lines  as  these : 

"To  loiter  down  lone  alleys  of  delight, 
And  hear  the  beating  of  the  hearts  of  trees, 
And  think  the  thoughts  that  lilies  speak  in  white 
By  green  wood-pools  and  pleasant  passages." 

Here  is  a  picture  of  the  oak  colonnades  of  a  grove : 

"  Between 

Old  companies  of  oaks  that  inward  lean 
To  join  iheir  radiant  amplitudes  of  green." 


640  APPENDIX  1. 

But  it  is  the  soothing  yet  inspiring  companionship  of  trees 
that  is  his  favourite  note : 

"  For  love,  the  dear  wood's  sympathies, 
For  grief,  the  wise  wood's  peace." 

This  ministration  of  trees  to  a  mind  and  heart  "forespent 
with  shame  and  grief"  finds  its  culmination  in  the  pathetic 
lines  upon  that  olive  garden  near  Jerusalem,  which  to  those 
of  us  who  have  sat  within  its  shade  must  always  seem  the 
most  sacred  spot  on  earth.  The  almost  mystic  exaltation 
of  the  power  of  poetic  sympathy  which  characterizes  the 
lines  "  Into  the  Wood  my  Master  went "  may  impair  their 
religious  effect  for  many  devout  souls.  But  to  many  others 
this  short  poem  will  express  most  wonderfully  that  essential 
human-heartedness  in  the  Son  of  Man,  our  Divine  Saviour, 
which  made  Him  one  with  us  in  His  need  of  the  quiet, 
sympathetic  ministrations  of  Nature — perhaps  the  heart  of 
the  reason  why  this  olive  grove  was  "  the  place  where  He 
was  wont  to  go  "  for  prayer. 

You  have  noticed  the  difference  between  the  confused 
masses  of  indistinct  shadow  which  the  gaslight  throws  upon 
the  city  pavements  from  the  leafy  branches  of  intervening 
trees,  and  the  crisp,  photographic  distinctness  of  the  shadow 
pictures  of  leaf  and  twig  and  moving  branch  cast  at  your 
feet  by  the  incandescent  electric  light — shadows  in  which 
each  individual  leaf,  its  shape,  its  transparency  or  opacity, 
and  the  angle  which  its  plane  makes  witli  the  rays  of  light 
and  with  the  pavement,  is  exactly  written  ?  As  wide  as  this 
difference  is  that  between  the  vague,  general  terms  in  which 
most  other  poets  write  of  trees  (where  they  write  of  them  at 
all)  and  the  loving  delineation  of  the  minutest  peculiarities 
of  tree  life  and  leaf  life  which  this  ardent  lover  of  trees  gives 
us  again  and  again.  The  long  list  of  living  growths  for 
which  "  the  flute  "  speaks  in  the  "  Symphony  "  might  almost 
serve  as  the  classed  catalogue  of  the  botanist,  so  full  is  it ; 
yet  see  how  it  breathes  with  the  poet's  love  for  that  of 
which  he  writes : 

"  I  speak  for  each  no-tongued  tree 
That  Spring  by  Spring  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerf  ol  arms  outspreads 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all  shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones,  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves, 
Broad-fronded  ferns  and  keen-leaved  canes, 
And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 


APPENDIX  I.  641 

And  marsh-plants,  thirsty  cupped  for  rains, 
And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins. 
For  every  long-armed,  woman-vine 
That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine; 
For  passionate  odours,  and  divine 
Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline; 
All  purities  of  shady  springs, 
All  shynesses  of  film-winged  things 
That  fly  from  tree-trunks  and  bark-rings ; 
All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings, 
Bark-mottlings,  flbre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings  and  leaf  flickerings, 
Each  dial -marked  leaf  and  flower-bell 
Wherewith  in  every  lonesone  dell 
Time  to  himself  his  hours  doth  tell." 

It  is  the  blending  of  the  "  conception  of  love  as  the  organic 
idea  of  moral  order  "  with  an  austerity  of  purity,  an  intense 
white-heat  of  admiring  devotion  to  holiness  and  truth,  which 
makes  Lanier  the  apostle  of  beauty  and  holiness  in  the  history 
of  American  art  and  letters. 

His  conception  of  the  function,  the  "  mission  "  of  the  artist 
we  need  not  infer  from  mere  allusions.  He  distinctly  formul 
ates  it  in  more  than  one  of  his  poems,  as  well  as  in  his  prose 
writings.'  In  Individuality  the  cloud  (which,  "still-eyed  and 
shadow-browed,  steals  off  from  yon  far-drifting  crowd,"  "And 
comes  and  broods  upon  the  marsh  ")  is  arraigned  by  the  poet 
for  "  contempts  on  Mercy,  Eight,  and  Prayer,"  because  but 
yesterday 

"  Thy  lightning  slew  a  child  at  play, 
And  then  a  priest  with  prayers  upon  his  lips 
For  his  enemies,  and  then  a  bright 
Lady  that  did  but  ope  the  door 

Upon  the  storming  night 
To  let  a  beggar  in,"  etc. 

"What  myriad  righteous  errands  high 
Thy  flames  might  run  on !  " 

To  which  the  cloud  makes  answer  : 

11  What  the  cloud  doeth 
The  Lord  knoweth, 
The  cloud  knoweth  not. 
What  the  artist  doeth 
The  Lord  knoweth; 
Knoweth  the  artist  not  ?  " 

•'  Awful  is  art,  because  'tis  free. 

The  artist  trembles  o'er  his  plan 
Whore  men  his  self  must  see  ; 
Who  made  a  song  or  picture,  he 
Did  it,  and  not  another,  God  or  man." 

"  Each  artist,  gift  of  terror,  owns  his  will." 


642  APPENDIX  1. 

Not  Arthur's  Difference  between  Physical  and  Moral  Law,  not 
Hazard's  Man  a  Creative  First  Cause,  is  more  explicit  in  its 
doctrine  of  responsibility.  This  Puritan-like  sense  of  man's 
accountability,  "  as  ever  in  the  Great  Task-Master's  eye," 
pervades  his  poems.  And  in  particular  upon  the  artist 
Lanier  lays  the  heaviest  responsibility  for  the  right  use  of 
the  great  gifts  entrusted  to  him.  The  thought  of  artists  as 

"  harps  that  stand 
In  the  wind,  and  sound  the  wind's  command," 

breathing  out,  irresponsibly,  a  strain  in  praise  of  good  or  ill, 
is  repellent  to  his  soul.  The  true  keynote  and  master-tone 
is  the  holiness  of  beauty.  With  this  all  a  man's  words  and 
deeds  should  be  in  harmony.  And  neither  in  artists  nor  in 
common  men  can  he  tolerate  that  clanging,  discordant 
looseness  of  tone  which  inevitably  follows  the  surrender  or 
the  forgetting  of  responsibility,  of  personal  allegiance  to 
ethical  law. 

Lanier  was  pre-eminently  a  musician  in  his  art.  In  his 
literary  criticism  there  is  abundant  use  of  the  "  imagery  "  of 
music — "notes"  and  "tones"  and  "melodies"  and  "har 
monies"  and  "tone-colours"  are  his  natural  language.  He 
believed,  too,  that 

"  Music,  on  earth,  much  light  upon  heaven  had  thrown ;  " 

and  his  most  helpful  views  of  the  future  of  men  on  earth,  as 
well  as  his  most  inspiring  outlooks  into  the  heavenly  distances 
and  the  vast  futurities  of  the  soul,  are  most  frequently  given 
in  terms  of  music.  Lanier  had  no  sympathy  with  the  poet- 
friend  who  objected  to  any  theory  of  verse,  and  said,  "As  for 
me,  I  would  rather  continue  to  write  verse  from  poetic  in 
stinct."  To  him  Lanier  quotes  Ben  Jonson's  lines  eulogising 
the  knowledge  and  trained  skill  with  which  Shakespeare 
"  shakes  a  lance  at  ignorance." 

His  volumes  of  prose  are  invaluable  for  students,  because 
they  incessantly  demand  of  the  reader  and  the  would-be  poet 
that  he  study,  learn,  acquire.  "  The  trouble  with  Poe  was, 
he  did  not  know  enough,"  says  Lanier.  "  He  needed  to  know 
a  good  many  more  things  in  order  to  be  a  great  poet."  And 
to  young  poets  :  "  You  need  not  dream  of  winning  the  atten 
tion  of  sober  people  with  your  poetry  unless  that  poetry  and 
your  soul  behind  it  are  informed  and  saturated  with  at  least 
the  largest  final  conceptions  of  current  science."  "  Once  for 
all,  in  art,  to  be  free  is  not  to  be  independent  of  any  form  ; 
it  is  to  be  master  of  many  forms." 


APPENDIX  I.  643 

He  was  possessed  by  the  deepest  conviction  that  the  beauty 
of  the  art  of  poetry,  like  all  other  beauty,  had  its  foundation 
in  law.  So  dominant  was  this  conviction  that,  publishing 
but  little,  he  held  all  his  powers  <5f  expression  in  reserve 
until  by  intense  study  he  could  formulate  a  scientific  theory 
of  the  art  of  verse,  under  which  he  could  be  free  (for  freedom 
is  possible  only  by  voluntary  conformity  to  law) — free  to 
work  freely  "  for  time,  not  for  the  day."  The  Science  of 
English  Verse  gives  us  the  result  of  these  studies.  It  deserves 
a  fuller  criticism  than  is  possible  in  this  article.  Its  central 
inspiring  idea  is  to  be  inferred  from  that  sentence  of  Dante's 
which  Lanier  inscribed  upon  its  title-page  :  "  But  the  best 
conceptions  cannot  be,  save  where  science  and  genius  are." 

His  wealth  of  imagination  ;  his  fine  powers  of  poetic  con 
ception  ;  his  skill  and  art  in  the  coining  of  happy  phrases  ; 
his  "  deft  marshalling  "  of  vowels  and  consonants  ;  his  con 
stantly  increasing  mastery  of  the  forms  of  verse  ;  his  union 
of  close  study  and  broad  reading  with  deep  poetic  insight, 
the  finest  flushes  of  poetic  feeling,  and  the  most  daring  free 
dom  in  the  use  of  passionate,  thought-laden  outbursts  of 
expression  ;  his  quick,  full,  and  unvarying  reliance  upon 
intuition  and  the  intuitive  perception  of  great  truth  as  the 
poet's  supremest  gift,  at  the  moment  when 

"  Belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know 
That  I  know:" 

— all  these  mark  him  as  a  great  poet. 

We  left  the  poet  just  made  happy  in  his  illness  by  his 
appointment  on  his  thirty-eighth  birthday,  in  1879,  to  a 
lectureship  on  English  literature  at  the  Johns  Hopkins 
University.  Let  us  follow  him  hurriedly  through  the  two 
years  of  life  left  to  him. 

It  was  in  May  1880  that  the  final  fever  fell  upon  him. 
After  that  date  he  lived  only  because  soul  and  will  triumphed 
over  a  body  that,  but  for  their  transcendent  power,  must 
have  yielded  at  once  to  disease.  A  summer  in  the  open  air 
at  West  Chester  prolonged  his  life,  and  the  autumn  time  saw 
him  again  in  Baltimore,  his  wife  and  children  about  him.  In 
December  all  hope  was  abandoned  ;  but  he  rallied,  and  in 
February  he  delivered  his  second  coitrse  of  lectures  at  the 
University,  since  published  as  the  Development  of  the  English 
Novel,  a  most  delightful  and  thoughtful  volume,  already 
recognised  as  a  classic. 

It  was  in  December  of  this  winter,  when  too  feeble  to 
raise  food  to  his  mouth,  with  a  fever  temperature  of  104  de- 


644  APPENDIX  I. 

grees,  that  he  pencilled  that  glorious  outburst  of  poetic  life 
and  fire,  "  Sunrise  on  the  Marshes,"  his  greatest  poem.  He 
seemed  to  fear  that  his  soul  might  lose  its  feeble  servant,  the 
body,  before  this  message  from  the  world  of  beauty,  where 
that  soul  already  floated  far  above  pain  and  suffering,  could 
be  left  on  record  that  other  men  might  by  it  be  uplifted. 

As  soon  as  the  return  of  spring  would  allow  a  change, 
they  bore  the  dying  poet  to  the  Carolinas,  as  a  last  hope,  to 
try  the  effect  of  tent  life  in  a  milder  climate.  His  brother 
Clifford  became  once  more  his  tent  companion,  as  in  the  days 
of  their  army  life.  Laid  thus  close  to  the  bosom  of  mother- 
earth,  breathed  upon  day  and  night  by  her  soft  mother- 
breath,  he  lingered  yet  a  little  while — he  even  seemed  to 
rally  back  toward  strength. 

His  brother,  summoned  suddenly  by  important  business, 
left  him,  in  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  so  marked  had  been 
the  improvement.  But  in  September  1881,  alone  with  his 
wife,  as  they  would  have  chosen  to  meet  the  inevitable,  his 
eyes  closed  on  this  world. 


APPENDIX    II. 

SIDNEY    LANIER. 

A    STUDY. 


ALL  that  is  strongest  and  truest  in  poetry  is  an  inspiration  ; 
that  is,  it  holds  within  itself  a  thought  or  a  teaching  not  con 
sciously  created,  nor  even  mastered,  in  its  inception  by  the 
mind  that  brought  it  forth,  but  susceptible  of  growth  and 
further  illumination  even  to  the  poet  himself  who  was  the 
chosen  instrument  of  his  message.  Thus  all  true  poets  must 
have  moments  when  they  are  also  seers,  as  in  the  olden  time 
they  were  denominated ;  they  must  have  visions — perchance 
at  the  time  not  fully  comprehended — wherein  somewhat  is 
revealed  to  them  which  they  must  transmit. 

Thus  our  poet  cries  out  as  he  wanders  at  night  among 
the  thousand  voices  of  Nature,  which  bring  him  vague 
promises  of  revelations  long  sought — mysterious  hints  border 
ing  on  knowledge, — 

"  So  ye  have  wrought  me 

Designs  on  the  night  of  our  knowledge,  yea,  ye  have  taught  me 
So  that  haply  we  know  somewhat  more  than  we  know." 

To  such  moments  of  inspiration  we  owe  our  noblest  poems. 
Wordsworth  was  surely  lifted  out  of  himself  when  he  wrote 
his  matchless  ode.  And  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam  unfolds 
new  treasures  to  the  loving  seeker  each  time  that  he 
brings  to  it  the  perplexities  bred  of  the  thought  of  the  age. 
Perchance  the  spirit  of  the  gifted  friend,  whose  threnody  it 
is,  ministered  to  him,  and  brought  him  from  that  world 
which  knows  not  Time,  an  inspiration  reaching  out  beyond 


646  APPENDIX  II. 

the  time  in  which  he  wrote,  and  pertaining  to  things  which 
his  own  spirit,  unaided,  had  not  attained  to.  For  never 
again,  when  his  fame  had  reached  its  height,  could  he  mete 
out  such  strong  help  to  the  questionings  that  brooded  over 
the  intellectual  atmosphere  like  an  ever-increasing  mist  of 
sadness.  For  maturity  of  thought,  for  nobility  of  conduct, 
for  insight  into  things  spiritual,  for  solvents  to  questions 
scarce  yet  propounded,  these  inspirations  of  the  years  of  his 
youth  were  never  again  reached.  In  them  he  was  indeed 
greater  than  he  knew. 

So  Browning  has  caught  for  us  out  of  these  God-given 
moments  glimpses  of  duty,  of  human  hopes  and  possibilities, 
of  earthly  love,  of  God's  love,  of  the  eternal  hope,  and  of 
immortality,  filled  with  a  strength  and  depth  greater  perhaps 
than  he  himself  has  dreamed,  and  lifted  purely  beyond  the 
mannerisms,  didacticisms,  and  wilful  obscurities  which  belittle 
too  much  that  has  come  from  his  sinewey  yet  often  roughly 
handled  pen.  Sometimes  that  fine  spirit  he  so  tenderly 
invokes  may  "  lean  from  the  holier  blue  "  to  inform  his  words 
with  "  new  depths  of  the  Divine."  For  it  is  noticeable  how 
often  the  manner  of  the  sterner  poet  takes  on  the  grace  and 
flow  of  the  wife's  method,  as  he  apostrophises  her.  But  all  in 
spiration,  though  we  may  not  trace  the  manner  of  its  revela 
tion,  is  a  veritable  effluence  from  the  invisible  world  ;  and 
because  there  are  moods  of  reception,  as  well  as  of  creation,  we 
who  read  or  listen  shall  gather  more  if  we  recall  this 
admonition  of  the  deep  and  soulful  singer  who,  recognising 
the  Divine  voice,  "  through  all  the  pulses  of  the  universe," 
cried,  "  Hearken,  hearken,  God  speaketh  in  thy  soul  !  " 

How  blessed  are  those  to  whom  it  is  given,  even  in  the 
least  degree,  to  be  an  inspiration  for  others,  through  their 
words,  their  writings,  their  aims,  or  that  noble  bearing  of 
pain,  thwarting  or  misconception,  which  often  crowns  some 
life  that  is  very  lowly  in  the  eyes  of  men  with  a  dignity  that 
is  royal  to  the  angels,  who  weigh  our  loftiness  and  littleness 
with  heavenly  measures.  Such  moods,  in  life  or  thought,  are 
not  continuous,  or  we  should  be  angels  and  not  men  ;  but  if 
a  writer  at  his  highest  moments  has  uttered  anything  that 
inspires,  we  may  well  feel,  not  that  we  should  blindly  admire 
everything  that  comes  from  his  pen,  but  that  the  passages 
which  attract  us  less  are  worthy  of  examination  in  a  fair  and 
seeking  spirit,  and  in  the  light  of  the  artist's  personality. 

There  are  some  poets  whom  we  read  for  beauty  alone,  and 
whom  upon  moral  grounds  we  should  discard  ;  they  having 
the  form  of  poetry  without  its  soul,  have  neither  claim  to  the 


APPENDIX  II.  647 

name  of  seer  nor  to  our  reverent  study;  when  they  cease  to 
attract,  we  may  pass  them  by.  But  while  perfect  poetry, 
the  finest  and  most  elevating  of  all  the  arts,  demands  perfect 
art  form — no  form,  however  exquisite,  may  take  the  place 
of  that  inward  beauty  and  meaning  which  alone  can  give 
any  creation  a  real  hold  upon  life  and  immortality.  As 
Lanier  himself  says,  in  words  that  have  been  often  quoted  as 
showing  the  determining  characteristics  of  his  own  life  and 
work,  "  He,  in  short,  who  has  not  come  to  that  stage  of  quiet 
and  eternal  frenzy  in  which  the  beauty  of  holiness  and  the 
holiness  of  beauty  mean  one  thing,  burn  as  one  fire,  shine  as 
one  light  within  him — he  is  not  yet  the  great  artist" 
(the  meaning  of  his  "  quiet  and  eternal  frenzy  "  being  well 
interpreted  by  Professor  Seely's  thought,  "Nothing  is  pure 
that  is  not  passionate").  And  in  the  same  paragraph  he 
tells  us,  "Time,  whose  judgments  are  inexorably  moral,  will 
not  accept  his  work." 

Avowing  such  a  purpose  as  the  holiness  of  beauty  and  the 
beauty  of  holiness — in  an  age  which  is  either  over-practical 
or  too  tolerant  of  sestheticism  without  questioning  its 
tendencies — fashioning  his  own  ways  upon  the  high  ideal  he 
had  conceived  of  a  poet's  life  (believing  that  he  should  first 
be  a  poet  before  he  could  sing  and  teach),  it  was  said  of  him 
by  a  critic,  when  he  passed  away,  that  he  was  "  his  own  best 
poem."  With  a  strong  and  reverent  faith  in  human  nature, 
yet  a  prophet's  keen  denunciation  of  its  littlenesses ;  with 
an  unflinching  belief  in  the  overmastering,  immortal  love 
which  shall  surely  right  the  seeming  wrongs  of  life — this 
faith  kept  his  presence  radiating  sunshine,  even  in  that  last 
winter  when  the  shadows  of  death  were  closing  about  him, 
and  the  last  cruel  sacrifice — the  surrender  of  an  elaborately 
wrought  scheme  of  literary  work  which  was  to  have  left  his 
message  with  mankind — was  kept  at  bay  with  a  hope 
almost  as  native  as  a  child's,  in  the  face  of  the  ceaseless,  con 
suming  fever  and  the  pitiless,  growing  bodily  weakness. 

Coming  late  to  the  art  life  for  which  he  knew  himself 
created,  he  was  an  indomitable  student  and  worker,  a  knight 
full  of  the  grace  and  chivalry  of  the  olden  time,  yet  abreast 
of  the  culture  and  science  and  deepest  thought  of  the  new  ; 
while  he  felt  the  time  to  be  so  benumbed  by  worldly 
wisdom  that  he  would  neither  practise  nor  preach  it  in  his 
singularly  poetic  and  unpractical  ways,  so  that  he  suffered 
much  where  a  prudent  garnering  of  his  resources,  and  more 
thought  for  details,  would  have  been  both  nobler  and  wiser. 
Yet  this  is  a  fault  more  natural  and  more  easily  pardoned  to 


648  APPENDIX  II. 

minds  that  are  truly  filled  with  great  aims  than  to  less 
gifted  ones ;  but  partly  on  this  account  his  recognition  was 
less  during  his  lifetime  than  the  world  had  already  accorded 
to  many  far  less  richly  endowed. 

He  left  us  an  unconscious  portrait  of  himself  when  he 
sketched 

"The  Catholic  man  who  hath  mightily  won 
God  out  of  knowledge,  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain, 
And  sight  out  of  blindness,  and  purity  out  of  a  stain," 

traced  further  in  "My  Democrat,"  whose  "height  shall  be 
the  height  of  great  resolution,  and  love,  and  faith,  and 
beauty,  and  knowledge,  and  subtle  meditation  ;  his  head 
shall  be  forever  among  the  stars." 

He  showed  us  his  ideal  when  he  painted  the  Christ 
hurling  the  money-changers  from  His  temple,  and  the  next 
moment  preaching  love  to  them  from  the  steps ;  his  faith 
that  love  shall  prevail,  and  light  or  knowledge  shall 
triumph, 

"  Howe'er  thou  turn'st,  wrong  earth,  still  Love's  in  sight, 
For  we  are  taller  than  the  breadth  of  night." 

How  evils  vanish  before  Love's  compassion.  "I  cannot  find 
where  ye  have  found  Hell,"  quoth  Love,  in  the  charming  fable 
where  Mind  and  Sense  would  override  the  gracious  Heavenly 
Faith. 

His  indignation  at  the  Time-Spirit,  in  the  first  sonnet  of 
the  poem  "  Acknowledgment." 

"  O  Age  that  half-believ'st  thou  half-believ'st, 
Half  doubt'st  the  substance  of  thine  own  half-doubt. 

Yea,  if  the  Christ  (called  thine)  now  paced  yon  street, 
Thy  halfness  hot  with  His  rebuke  would  swell ; 
Legions  of  scribes  would  rise  and  run  and  beat 
Hie  fair  intolerable  Wholeness  twice  to  Hell!  " 

Of  the  uses  of  pain's  discipline,  we  find  in  the  poem  called 
"  Opposition," 

"  The  dark  hath  many  dear  avails; 
The  dark  distils  divinest  dews. 

Of  fret,  of  dark,  of  thorn,  of  chill 
Complain  no  more  ;  for  these,  0  heart, 
Direct  the  random  of  the  Will, 
As  rhymes  direct  the  rage  of  art." 

Of  his  reverence  for  Christ,  in  that  most  perfect  ''  Ballad 
of  Trees  and  the  Master,"  and  in  the  "  Crystal " — less  well 
understood,  though  in  intention  most  full  of  homage. 


APPENDIX  II.  649 

And  while  he  is  not  properly  a  religious  poet,  in  the  sense 
of  making  theological  expression  his  aim,  his  feeling  on  this 
great  question  is  everywhere  traceable,  both  expressly  and 
indirectly,  and  we  have  such  strong  expressions  as  these, — 

"  God,  whom  my  roads  all  reach,  howe'er  they  run, 
My  Father,  Friend,  Beloved,  dear  All-One, 
Thee  in  my  soul,  my  soul  in  Thee  I  feel, 
Self  of  myself." 

And  for  the  record  of  his  own  last  days  those  who  knew 
him  in  that  time  may  read  the  touching  picture  in  this 
passage,  conceived  very  early  in  his  poetic  career, — 

"  Yea,  standing  smiling  in  thy  future  grave, 

Serene  and  brave. 
With  unremitting  breath 

Inhaliug  life  from  death. 
Thine  epitaph  writ  fair  in  fruitage  eloquent, 

Thyself  thy  monument." 

To  be  with  such  a  man,  in  whose  presence  one  was  un 
consciously  at  one's  best,  with  a  craving  to  advance  in  all 
that  was  -good  and  noble,  was  of  itself  an  inspiration.  Is 
there  no  time  in  our  fast  flowing  life  to  gather  what 
we  may  from  the  poems  such  a  dreamer  has  left  us,  thinking, 
as  we  note  how  few  they  are,  "  'Tis  not  what  Man  Does 
which  exalts  him,  but  what  man  Would  do  "  ? 

Because  of  his  intimate  acquaintance  with  all  that  was 
best  in  the  earlier  sources  of  literature,  and  because,  like  all 
great  word-artists,  he  was  ever  seeking  to  enrich  his  art, 
loth  to  see  anything  that  was  good  fall  away  from  remem 
brance,  occasional  quaintnesses  of  conceit  and  expression 
which  may  sound  fanciful  or  overstrained  to  those  who 
meet  them  first  in  his  writings,  are  remembered  by  his 
friends  as  habits  of  his  daily  speech,  entirely  natural  to  one 
who  was  in  all  things  true  and  without  affectations,  although 
his  aims  and  methods  of  thought  could  not  fail  to  produce 
originalities,  or  unconventionalities  of  manner. 

For  short  as  was  his  art  life,  in  it  he  slightly  indicated 
a  new  school  of  thought.  Loving  the  beautiful  and  the 
ideal  with  an  intensity  that  was  never  reached  by  the 
apostle  of  sweetness  and  light,  holding  with  Puritan  stern 
ness  to  nobility  of  conduct,  the  sway  of  conscience  and 
absolute  truth,  the  extremes  of  Hebraism  and  Hellenism 
met  in  him.  "  The  time  needs  heart !  "  he  cried.  The  good 
in  each  should  no  longer  stand  opposed  ;  the  two  ideas  were 
fused  by  the  strong  forces  of  freedom  and  love,  and  there 
came  forth,  large-hearted  and  large-brained,  the  spirit  of 


650  APPENDIX  II. 

catholicity,  which  might  in  art  terms  be  named  the  Neo 
Hellenic  Hebraic — nourished  on  all  that  had  been  of  good 
in  all  the  ages  past,  and  open  to  all  that  is  and  shall  be  of 
noble  in  the  new. 

We  trace  this  thought  in  these  lines  from  the 
"  Symphony,"- 

"  To  follow  Time's  dying  melodies  through, 
And  never  to  lose  the  old  in  the  new, 
And  ever  to  solve  the  discords  true, 
Live  alone  can  do" 

Keen-visioned  as  Carlyle  for  the  evils  which  the  stern 
Scotch  prophet  denounced,  his  hope  in  human  nature  and 
in  God's  wise  lovingness  kept  him  buoyant  in  the  face  of 
them  ;  at  one  with  Arnold  in  his  definition  of  poetry,  "  the 
idea  of  beauty  and  of  a  human  nature  perfect  in  all  its 
sides,"  his  ideal  of  perfection  was  broader  than  Arnold's. 
The  joy  of  the  spiritual,  the  potency  of  love,  the  freedom 
which  makes  the  sacredness  of  art  are  insisted  upon.  "  Awful 
is  art  because  'tis  free."  His  soul  pants  for  freedom  as  for 
recognition,  and  at  times  can  find  it  nowhere  save  alone 
with  Nature,  to  whom  he  attributes  "  precious  qualities  of 
silence." 

"Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter  gasp  for  space. 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race, 
Just  to  be  followed,  when  that  thou  has  found 
No  man  with  room  or  grace  enough  of  bound 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art — 
'Tis  here,  'tis  here  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart, 
And  breathe  it  free." 

Lanier  has  a  strong  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  individuality, 
strangely  opposed  to  Arnold's  jealousy  of  it,  but  the  catholic 
man  cannot  forget  that  mankind  is  not  an  entity,  but  a 
vast  collection  of  separate  souls,  whose  sacred  personality  he 
would  not  efface,  but  encourage  and  elevate,  that  each  may 
bear  his  part  in  the  perfection  of  the  whole — thus  advancing 
by  a  common  loftiness  of  purpose  the  holiness  and  beauty 
of  the  race. 

"  My  Lord  is  large,  my  Lord  is  strong; 
Giving  He  gave;  my  me  is  mine." 

The  roots  of  his  "All-Centuries'  Plant"  strike  deep  down 
into  Puritan  and  Huguenot  soil,  branching  out  in  fair  freedom 
in  an  atmosphere  of  Greek  culture,  of  Christian  civilisation, 
and  modern  thought,  and  reaching  far  up  toward  heaven, 
with  its  gracious  perfume,  to  win  the  Father's  blessing. 

Does  not  the  larger  spirit  of  catholicity  take  one  step  in 
advance  of  the  spirit  of  culture  (if  culture  is  to  be  defined 


APPENDIX  II.  651 

by  Hellenism)  in  solving  the  problems  of  the  age  ?  In  full 
sympathy  with  the  needs  of  the  time,  not  cast  down  by  the 
evils  which  exist,  because  of  its  perfect  trust  that  God's 
love  shall  ultimately  prevail — strong  through  this  faith  to 
labour  and  to  suffer,  it  gladly  embraces  all  that  is  noble — 
not  only  in  every  system,  but  in  all  the  souls  of  whom  our 
Father  has  made  one  brotherhood. 

Once,  before  creeds  were  fashioned,  it  was  recorded  by  the 
All- Wise  One,  "  her  sins  which  are  many  are  forgiven  ;  for 
she  loved  much."  And  again  it  is  written,  "  Love  is  the  ful 
filling  of  the  law."  Love  recognises  the  divine  germ  in  this 
human  brotherhood  ;  love  is  the  atmosphere  of  catholicity. 

One  cannot  read  Lanier  without  perceiving  that  his  first 
and  deepest  passion  is  for  music  ;  his  rhythms,  his  choice  of 
words;  his  sudden  surprises  of  change  or  pause,  explain 
themselves  at  once  as  echoing  some  melody  through  which 
the  thought  sings  itself  in  his  soul ;  and  we  know  that  he  has 
simply  made  choice  of  word  tone,  instead  of  musical  notation, 
to  convey  his  meaning.  For  this  reason  his  poems  are  best 
interpreted  when  read  aloud. 

No  dryad  of  classic  pastoral  age  ever  lay  nearer  to  the 
heart  of  Nature  than  did  he. 

"  Yea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 
Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone. 
The  flute  voice  in  the  world  of  tone." 

He  tells  us  in  his  "Symphony,"  and  straightway  sounds 
for  us  a  delicious  melody  of  tone  and  image,  all  broidered 
close  with  quaint  conceits.  Through  its  freshness  and  grace 
and  passionate  Nature— love  we  first  learned  the  heart  of  the 
poet,  before  we  grew,  as  in  later  years,  into  his  friendship  ; 
and  with  what  a  sense  of  gratitude  we  told  each  other  that 
a  true  poet  was  among  us  !  How  fair  and  wonderful  and 
voicefula  world  lies  open  to  the  magic  love-touch  of  one  who 
gives  thanks  for 

"  All  gracious  curves  of  slender  wings, 
Bark-mottlings,  flbre-spiralings, 
Fern-wavings  and  leaf-flickerings. 

Yea,  all  fair  forms  and  sounds  and  lights, 
And  warmths  and  mysteries  and  migbts 
Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights." 

Yet  it  would  be  unfair  to  him  to  let  this  Nature  passion 
show  itself  only  through  these  faun-like  passages  just  quoted  ; 
a  deeper,  holier  spirit  pervaded  the  forest  steps,  or  awaited 
him  by  the  sea  marsh. 


652  APPENDIX  II. 

"  Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of  sin 
By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the  Marshes  of  Glynn. 

"  Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noon-day  fire, 
Wild-wood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire, 
Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of  leaves, 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul  that  grieves. 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the  wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good." 

It  is  difficult  not  to  quote  too  much  in  attempting  to  show 
this  passionate  and  many-sided  Nature — love,  yet  one  more 
extract  under  this  head  may  be  pardoned  to  show  his 
peculiar  power  of  personification, — 

"  I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved,  I  might  not  abide  ; 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  O  beloved,  my  live-oaks  to  hide 
In  your  gospelling  glooms— to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the  sea  my  sea." 

"  Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Yefconsciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me." 

"  And  there,  oh,  there 

As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in  the  air. 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer." 

It  seems  too  sacred  to  be  spoken  of  without  intrusion,  yet 
it  should  be  told,  the  perfect,  satisfying  joy  that  gladdened 
the  home  life  of  this  artist,  the  quick  intellectual  and 
emotional  response  that  mirrored  his  thoughts  and  aims  and 
gave  them  back  to  him  with  stereoscopic  roundness,  the 
upholding  influence  of  this  holy  love  in  the  dark  days  which 
taught  him  the  uses  of  pain.  In  this,  at  least,  he  had  his 
heart's  desire,  and  from  its  fragrance  was  exhaled  that  most 
perfect  love  poem  beginning 

"  In  the  heart  of  the  Hills  of  Life." 

He  was  so  truly  a  beauty  lover,  so  responsive  to  every 
upward  influence,  that  what  he  admired  in  those  of  whom  he 
wrote  soon  became  a  living  part  of  his  own  character,  his 
large  generosities  in  admiration  returning  quickly  to  crown 
him.  For  this  reason  the  tersest  and  most  comprehensive 
characterisation  of  our  poet,  although  it  was  an  unconscious 
one,  is  to  be  drawn  from  his  own  words,  which  continually 
recur  to  me  when  I  would  make  him  known  to  others. 
Take,  for  instance,  lines,  here  and  there,  from  his  poem  to 
Beethoven,  ever  his  "Dear  Master"  in  music,  as  was 
Shakespeare  in  literature, — 


APPENDIX  II.  653 

"O  Psalmist  of  the  weak,  the  strong, 
0  troubadour  of  love  and  strife." 

"To  know  all  things  save  knowingness. 
To  grasp,  yet  loosen  feeling's  rein ; 
To  waste  no  manhood  on  success." 

"Though  teased  by  small  mixt  social  claims 
To  lose  no  large  simplicity. 
To  hold  with  keen,  yet  loving  eyes, 
Art's  realm  from  cleverness  apart, 
To  know  the  clever  good  and  wise, 
Yet  haunt  the  lonesome  heights  of  Art." 

And,  finally,  he  sums  up  for  us,  in   words  how  few  and 
simple,  his  theory  and  love  of  art  life,  and  his  faith. 

"  I  work  in  freedom  wild. 
But  work  as  plays  a  little  child, 
Sure  of  the  Father,  Self  and  Love  alone." 

Perhaps  some  may  say  that  here  are  only  isolated 
passages,  that  to  concede  their  beauty  or  aspiration  is  merely 
to  grant  the  charm  of  the  special  thoughts,  and  does  not 
necessarily  prove  the  value  of  the  poems  as  a  whole ;  that, 
therefore,  nothing  has  been  said  to  prove  the  place  that 
Sidney  Lanier  should  occupy  among  the  world's  poets. 

Be  it  so.  Even  if  the  limitations  of  this  paper  had  not 
prevented  the  critical  study  of  his  work  from  an  artistic 
standpoint,  for  doubtless  all  art  work  must  bear  the  tests  of 
art  before  it  can  be  finally  adjudged  to  its  proper  niche  in 
Time's  vast  Walhalla,  it  was  only  the  intention  of  this  study 
to  place  before  those  who  are  better  qualified  as  critics  his 
oneness  of  purpose,  the  peculiar  correspondence  between  his 
individuality  and  his  work,  the  unusual  degree  in  which  he 
himself  was  fashioned  by  his  ideals,  the  unfailing  loftiness  of 
his  aspirations,  and  the  uplifting  force  he  was  invariably  felt  to 
possess  by  those  who  came  near  to  him.  Without  such  knowledge 
of  the  man  in  his  wholeness,  gained  from  personal  acquaint 
ance,  or  from  those  who  intimately  knew  hinij  it  is  impossible 
that  his  work  should  receive  an  adequate  interpretation. 
With  it  those  critics  who  are  fitted  for  their  office,  and  who 
feel  the  sacredness  of  their  responsibility  in  directing  the 
eyes  of  a  seeking  world  to  include  all  holiness  and  beauty  in 
all  art  and  nature,  will  surely  find  a  niche  for  a  man  who 
lived  for  "  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever  things  are 
lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report." 

Whether  the  Greek  standard  of  art,  as  applied  to  the 
intellectual  life,  shall  suffice  for  our  fevered  modern  time  ? 

2u 


654  APPENDIX  II. 

whether  new  breadth  of  thought  does  not  necessitate  more 
freedom  in  form  ?  whether  some  forms  peculiar  to  Lanier, 
which  were  not  accidental,  but  were  wrought  after  his  own 
technical  Science  of  Verse,  shall  stand  the  tests  of  time  ? 
whether  an  extraordinary  unity  of  purpose  throughout  work 
that  was  finished,  and  that  which  was  merely  sketched,  may 
atone  for  some  didacticism,  some  roughness,  or  carelessness  ? 
these  and  kindred  questions  are  not  for  his  friends  to  decide. 
The  world  must  finally  ask,  "  How  does  Sidney  Lanier  rank 
as  a  poet  ?  How  have  his  own  words  spoken  for  him  ? "  and 
time  shall  answer,  "Time,  whose  judgments  are  inexorably 
moral." 

Because  of  our  growing  catholicity,  of  the  many  moods 
and  minds  to  be  ministered  to,  it  is  increasingly  difficult  to 
keep  within  the  lines  of  criticism  we  have  hitherto  felt  to 
be  fixed ;  and  new  determining  principles,  allowing  larger 
latitude,  may  possibly  be  among  the  changes  not  far  distant. 
As  works  of  transcendent  genius  in  any  period  are  a  law 
unto  themselves,  having  power  to  move  the  hearts  of  all 
future  ages — yet  the  laws  deducible  from  their  being,  however 
closely  followed  in  minor  works,  lack  this  emotional  power — 
so  must  there  not  be  a  genius  for  every  period,  who  shall 
show  forth  the  spirit  and  needs  of  his  time  after  a  method 
which  shall  be  new  for  those  who  judge  by  what  has  gone 
before  ? 

Just  as  now  we  are  beginning  to  allow — nay,  almost  to 
crave — an  expression  indicative  of  some  noble  moulding 
emotion  in  the  faces  of  our  marble  groups,  may  not  the 
case  arise  where  the  question  to  be  asked  is,  not  whether 
the  outline  is  severely  classic,  but  whether  the  passionate 
emotion  flows  purely  and  harmoniously,  revealing  new  lines 
of  grace?  whether  the  thought  moves  us  in  the  direction  of 
the  tendency  for  which  the  artist  strives?  whether  that 
tendency  is  upward  ? 

"There  are,  it  may  be,  so  many  kinds  of  voices  in  the 
world,  and  none  of  them  is  without  signification.  There 
fore,  if  I  know  not  the  meaning  of  the  voice,  I  shall  be  to  him 
that  speaketh  a  barbarian,  and  he  that  speaketh  shall  be 
a  barbarian  unto  me." 

Would  not  life  be  richer  in  harmonies  if  we  knew  the 
meaning  of  these  many  kinds  of  voices  ? 

And  if  a  new  voice,  whose  signification  is  just  growing 
clear  to  us  utters — not  new  truth,  since  truth  is  one — but 
widening  aspects  of  the  truth  j  and  if  in  the  spacious 


APPENDIX  II.  655 

temple  of  art  gracious  acceptance  is  granted  to  this  new 
voice,  no  other  voice  that  has  ever  added  one  least  grace-note 
to  the  full  psalm  of  life  is  less  needed  than  before.  In  the 
symphony  that  earth  breathes  up  to  heaven  there  are  many 
parts — strong  chords  of  wondrous  power,  sweet  choruses  of 
lesser  voices — but  no  discords  of  jealousy,  for  even  the  painful 
minor  strain  has  its  sequence  of  perfection  ;  and  the  spirit 
of  catholicity,  the  glad  "  Lark  of  the  Dawn  "  shall  teach  us 
all  lovingly  to  welcome  each  tone  that  makes  for  harmony 
and  light. 

FRANCESE  L.  TURNBULL. 


INDEX    TO    POEMS. 


A 

PAGE 

At  Last, 

PAGE 
413 

At  Odds  with  Life, 

148 

ABRAHAM           Lincoln's 

At  Rainbow  Lake, 

631 

Christmas  Gift, 

455 

At  Sea  

627 

Accolade,  The, 

384 

At  Tappan,     . 

378 

Actseon, 

615 

Australia,  Western, 

193 

Adonais, 

11 

Avalanches,     . 

421 

Advice,  .... 

511 

Avery,     .... 

63 

Affaire  d'Amour,    .      .  . 

401 

Awake  in  Darkness, 

37 

After  Death,  . 

447 

After  the  Ball, 

449 

After  the  Storm,     . 

409 

B 

Afterward, 

460 

Agatha's  Song, 

485 

BABYLON, 

239 

All  the  Rivers, 

459 

Bacchus, 

339 

Alone,     .... 

626 

Ballad  of  Port  Royal,      . 

570 

An  Afterthought,    . 

309 

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the 

An  Exile, 

204 

Master.    . 

142 

Andromeda,    . 

239 

Banner  of  the  Jew,  The, 

435 

Anniversary  Hymn, 

277 

Banner,  The  Conquered, 

77 

Answered, 

507 

Beach,  On  the, 

102 

Antigone, 

601 

Beaten,    .... 

359 

Apart,     .... 

39 

Beauty,  The  Power  of,    . 

111 

Appeal  to  Harold,  The,  . 

314 

Beauregard's  Appeal, 

3 

Apprisals, 

336 

Beaver  Pond  Meadow,    . 

243 

Arcady,  The  Way  to, 

311 

Beethoven's  Third  Sym 

Arcana  Sylvarum,  . 

258 

phony,      . 

356 

Ariel,      .... 

7 

Belle  of  Prseneste;  . 

468 

As    I   came   down    from 

Betrothal,  A,  . 

341 

Lebanon,          .         . 

342 

Between  the  Rapids, 

577 

At  End,           .         ... 

445 

Beyond  the  Branches  of 

At  Grandmother's,  .     .   . 

557 

the  Pine, 

174 

658 


INDEX  TO  POEMS. 


PAOK 

PAGE 

Beyond  the  Potomac,      . 

4 

Conflagration, 

44 

Blackberry  Farm,  The,   . 

42 

Content,  A  Song  of, 

46 

Blemished  Offering,  A,   . 

467 

Country,     The     Undis 

Boat,  A  Shadow,     . 

284 

covered,  . 

17 

Bon  Voyage,    . 

420 

Creed  of  Love,  The, 

100 

British    Canada    to    Mr 

Cressid,  .         .         .        , 

457 

Louis  M.  Frechette, 

602 

Cross  of  Gold, 

53 

British  War  Song,  . 

624 

Crowing     of     the     Red 

Broken  Promise, 

464 

Cock,  The, 

434 

Brooklyn  Bridge,  The,    . 

478 

Cry,  A,  .        .        .        . 

449 

Brother,  In  Memory  of,  . 

74 

Crystal,  The,  .      '  .        . 

145 

Brown  of  England's  Lay, 

550 

C.  S.  A.,          .         .         . 

79 

Bryant,  The  Death  of,     . 

20 

Cup  of  Death,  The, 

448 

Burden  of  Time,  The,      . 

322 

Buried  King,  The,  . 

37 

Byron,  Last  Days  of,       . 

378 

D 

By  the  Fountain,    . 

523 

By    the     Light    of     the 

DAINTY  Fop,  A, 

308 

Moon, 

101 

Dandelions,  The,     . 

389 

By  the  Turret  Stair, 

346 

Danger,  .... 

422 

Dark  Room,  The,   . 

176 

Dawn  and  Dusk,     .         .  ; 

337 

C 

Day,  A  Rainy,      •  .         . 

103 

Dead  Moon,  The,    .      .  . 

399 

CALL  Me  not  Dead, 

181 

Dead,      .... 

62 

Canada,  .... 

609 

Dead  Nymph,  The, 

331 

Canada  not  Last,    . 

583 

Dead  Summer,  A,  . 

380 

Canoe,  The,    . 

543 

Death,     .... 

530 

Carmen,  .... 

351 

Death     of     the    White 

Celebes,  The,  . 

182 

Heron, 

199 

Celestial  Passion,  The,    . 

178 

Death  in  April, 

535 

Ceres,      .... 

202 

Death  Song  of  Chi-wee- 

Charity,  .... 

120 

wo,  .... 

542 

Chattahoochee,   Song    of 

Debutante,  The, 

353 

the,. 

140 

Decoration  Day, 

165 

Cheyenne  Mountain, 

421 

Decoration  Day, 

221 

Children,  The, 

129 

Dedication, 

426 

'Christmas   Night    in   St 

Der  Drummer, 

157 

Peter's,    . 

419 

Don't  Feel  Too  Big,     .   . 

158 

City,  The, 

335 

Der  Oak  und  der  Vine,  . 

152 

Clocks     of     Kenilworth, 

Der  Vater  Mill,       . 

159 

The, 

84 

Desire,    .... 

395 

Collect     for     Dominion 

Diana,     . 

203 

Day,         I 

608 

Dickens  in  Camp,    . 

83 

Colour  Song,  . 

375 

Discoverer,  The, 

18 

Comfort, 

580 

Distance, 

184 

Comfort        through       a 

Divided,  .         .         . 

51 

Window,  . 

465 

Dollie  

308 

INDEX  TO  POEMS. 

659 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Dominion  Day, 

605 

From  "  Christmas  Night 

Dorothy, 

432 

in  the  Quarters," 

291 

Down  the  Bayou,    . 

502 

From  Enamorado,  . 

548 

Drama,  Song  from  a, 

17 

From  Far, 

599 

Dream  and  Deed,    . 

573 

From  the  Building  of  The 

Drifting  among  the  Thou 

Bridge,    . 

628 

sand  Islands,    . 

590 

From  the  Tecumseh, 

595 

Dying  in  Harness,  . 

194 

From  "  The  Symphony," 

142 

Frost  

501 

Frost  Work,  . 

589 

E 

EASTER  Morning,    . 

473 

G 

Eheu  !  Fugaces, 

242 

El  Mahdi  to  the  Troops 

GALATEA, 

164 

of  the  Soudan, 

476 

Garden,  The  Lost,  . 

509 

Elsinore, 

392 

Gettysburg,    . 

287 

390 

Ghosts    .... 

319 

Enchantments,  The  Two, 

69 

Gloaming,  Song  of  the,  . 

251 

Epitaph     on     an     Early 

Glynn,  The  Marshes  of,  . 

137 

Settler,     . 

546 

Going  and  Coming,          . 

381 

Errand,  The,  . 

108 

Gold,      .... 

223 

Estrangement, 

624 

Goldsmith's  Whistle, 

489 

Evening  Star,  The, 

179 

Gone,      .... 

280 

Evolution, 

256 

Great  is  To-Day,     . 

249 

Exile,  An, 

204 

Grief  and  Faith,     . 

481 

Exiles,     .         . 

501 

Guilt  in  Solitude,    . 

586 

F 

H 

FAILURE,  A  Song  of, 

389 

HABEAS  CORPUS,     . 

427 

Faith's  Surrender,   . 

90 

Hand  of  Lincoln,  The,     . 

25 

Father  and  Child,    . 

180 

Handsel  Ring,  The, 

278 

Fiat  Justitia,           .  ' 

222 

Harp,  The,      . 

279 

Fires  in  Illinois, 

47 

Heart,  Sad  Heart,  . 

445 

Fire,  The  Light'ood, 

198 

Heartsick, 

383 

First  Thanksgiving  Day, 

471 

Heat  

575 

Fir  Tree  and  The  Brook, 

422 

He  gets  There  shust  the 

First  Settler's  Story,  The, 

209 

Same, 

154 

Five  Lives,     . 

105 

Hellas,  The  Lost,.   . 

252 

Flood  Tide,    . 

561 

Her  Conquest,       •  . 

295 

Florida  Ibis,  The,  . 

88 

Her  Letter, 

80 

Foe,  The  Only, 

494 

Heroes,  The,    . 

480 

Fool's  Prayer,  The, 

106 

Heron,  The,     . 

353 

Forlorn,           . 

56 

Hie  Jacet, 

448 

Francie, 

431 

Hills,  Silence  of  the, 

318 

From  "Baruaval,"  . 

266 

Homer,    .... 

585 

INDEX  TO  POEMS. 


PiGE 

I'.IUK 

Hope,      .... 

625 

L 

House  of  Death,  The, 

441 

. 

House,  The  New,    . 

45 

LABOUR  and  Life,  . 

111 

How  It  Happened,  . 

71 

La  Decouverte  du  Missi- 

How  Long, 

442 

sippi, 

566 

How  Much  do  you  Love 

Lake  Memory,  A,  . 

521 

Me? 

505 

Land,     . 

417 

Hugh  Latimer, 

247 

Lawrence, 

92 

Hunter,  The, 

343 

Last  Goodbye,  The,        . 

447 

Hymn  of  the  Marshes,  A, 

131 

Last  Prayer,  A,      .         . 

430 

Le  Drapeau  Anglais, 

564 

I 

Legend  of  Glossop,  The, 

552 

Life  

402 

IDENTITY 

56 

Life  

5U 

Idylls,    .... 

354 

Life,  The  Prime  of, 

242 

If  there  were  Dreams  to 

Life  and  Love, 

269 

Sell, 

443 

Light  of  the  House,  The, 

408 

I  Love  Her  Gentle  Fore 

Lily,  The  Red, 

6 

head, 

173 

Little  Mamma, 

29 

Imperfection, 

219 

Lullabies,        .         .         . 

274 

Invocation,     . 

259 

Lonely  Grave,  The, 

486 

In  Absence,    . 

632 

Looking  Backward,         . 

432 

In  Bohemia,  . 

196 

L'Ordre  de  Bon  Temps,  . 

551 

In  Doubt, 

464 

Loss,  The  Sense  of, 

100 

In  my  Heart, 

607 

Love,     .         . 

321 

In  the  Studio, 

593 

Love's      Infinite      made 

Isle,  The, 

613 

Finite,     . 

99 

Ivy,       .... 

235 

Love's  Jealousy,     .         . 

178 

Love  Letters,          .         . 

561 

J 

Love's    of    Leaves    and 

Grasses,  .         .         . 

251 

JACQUKNIMOTS, 

181 

Lovers,  Provengal, 

23 

Jem  Bludso,  . 

70 

Love's  Secret, 

183 

Jim,       .... 

306 

K 

M 

KEATS  

180 

MADRIGAL,  A, 

340 

Keenan's  Charge,  . 

289 

Magdalen, 

484 

Keziah,  .... 

519 

Making  Peace, 

466 

Khartoum,  .   . 

610 

Manitou, 

522 

King,  The,     . 

304 

Man  who  rode  to  Cone- 

King  and  the  Pope,  The, 

33 

maugh,  The,    . 

329 

Kit  Carson's  Ride, 

124 

Marjorie's  Kisses,  . 

241 

Knee  -Deep  in  June, 

300 

Masque  of  Venice,  . 

436 

Knot  of  Blue,  A,    . 

309 

Master  Poets,  The, 

172 

Knowledge,    . 

581 

Master  and  Slave,  . 

225 

Knowledge,    .         .         . 

622 

Maurice  de  Guerin, 

361 

INDEX  TO  POEMS. 


66 1 


May,      .... 

PAGE 

427 

Opportunity,    . 

PAGK 

104 

Meadow,  Through  the,    . 

61 

O    Silver    River   flowing 

Meeting,  The, 

220 

toward  the  Sea, 

167 

Midsummer,  . 

508 

Our  Mother,    . 

248 

Mine  Moder-in-Liuv, 

156 

Our  Poets, 

529 

Mine  Family, 

154 

Our  Two  Opinions, 

273 

Mist,  The,      . 

102 

Out-going  Race,  The, 

433 

Monadnoc, 

362 

Outlook, 

581 

Moon  in  the  City,  The,  . 

221 

Mordecai, 

418 

Mower  in  Ohio,  The, 

39 

P 

My  Lady  Sleeps,    . 

272 

My  Love  for  Thee  doth 

PACE  Implora, 

123 

march    like    Armed 

Painted  Fan,  A, 

440 

Men, 

176 

Palabras  Carmosas, 

55 

My  Masterpiece,     . 

357 

Pan  in  Wall  Street, 

13 

My  Queen, 

48 

Passing  Song,  A,     . 

407 

My  Ships, 

512 

Passion,  The  Celestial,    . 

178 

My  Tenant,    . 

425 

Pegasus,  .... 

397 

People,  The  White  Tsar's, 

169 

Persian  Dancing  Girl,  A, 

341 

N 

Persephone, 

470 

Phoebe  Bird,  The,    . 

288 

NATIONAL  Hymn,  . 

582 

Pictures  of  Memory, 

602 

Nebuchadnezzar,     . 

293 

Pilgrim,  The  Quiet, 

500 

Pines,  The,      . 

594 

Pipes  of  Pan,  The,  . 

611 

O 

Poet,  The,        .         .         . 

394 

Poet,  The, 

409 

OAK  Hill, 

488 

Poet's  Forge,  The,  . 

427 

Ode,        .... 

161 

Poet's  Friends,  The, 

63 

Of  Flowers,     . 

360 

Pope  and  the  King,  The, 

33 

Oh,  Love  is  not  a  Summer 

Power  of  Beauty,  The,     . 

111 

Mood, 

176 

Prayer,  The  Fool's, 

106 

Old  Song,  An, 

488 

Pre-existence, 

8 

Old  Violin,  The.       . 

360 

Pro  Mortuis,   . 

68 

On  a  Bust  of  Antonius,  . 

347 

Provencal  Lovers,    . 

23 

On  the  Beach, 

102 

One  Day, 

579 

On  Some  Buttercups, 

339 

Q 

On   the  Fly   Leaf   of    a 

Book  of  Old  Plays,  . 

240 

QUATRAIN, 

325 

On    the    Life    Mask    of 

Queen,  My,    . 

48 

Abraham  Lincoln,    . 

177 

Only  Once,      . 

175 

On  Life's  Seas, 

532 

R 

On  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  . 

460 

On  the  Road  to  Chorrera, 

284 

RAILWAY  Station,  The, 

582 

662 


INDEX  TO  POEMS. 


Rainy  Day,  A, 

Refrain, 

Reform, 

Regardant,     . 

Relics,   .         .         . 

Rest,      .... 

Resettlement  of  Acadia, 

The, 
Rhyme     of    the    Great 

River,  The, 
Riding  Down, 
Ride,  Kit  Carson's, 
Ring,  The  Buried,  . 
Ring,  The  Handsel, 
Rising    of    the   Curtain, 

The, 

Robin's  Madrigal,  The,  . 
Romance  of  a  Rose, 
Room,  The  Dark,   . 
Rose  and  Thorn,  The,     . 


S 

SAILOR'S  Sweetheart,  The, 

Saint  Malo,    . 

Salt,       .... 

Savage,  A, 

Schumann's  Sonata  in  A 

Minor,     . 

Sealed  Orders,  The, 
Sea's  Voice,  The,    . 
Secret  Song,  A, 
Seeker  in   the   Marshes, 

The,         .         .         . 
Sense  of  Loss,  The, 
Sentinel  Songs, 
Serenade, 

Severance,       .         .         . 
Shadow  Boat,  A,    . 
Shakespeare,  . 
Shell,  With  a  Nantucket, 
Shelley,. 
Sheridan, 

Ship  in  the  Desert,  The, . 
Silence  of  the  Hills,  The, 
Sir  Hugo's  Choice, . 
Slumber  Song, 


PAGE 

PAGE 

103 

Snowflakes,    . 

250 

424 

Solitude, 

506 

164 

Some  One  Comes,  . 

600 

73 

Sometime, 

562 

534 

Sonnet  

483 

53 

Sonnet,  The,  . 

179 

Sonnets  in  Shadow, 

285 

554 

Song,      .... 

110 

Song,      .... 

350-1 

]17 

Songs,    .... 

173 

456 

Song,      .... 

495 

124 

Song,  The,      . 

279 

37 

Song,     .... 

589 

278 

Song  of  the  Sea, 

336 

Song  from  Enamorado,  > 

549 

245 

Song  of  Life,  A,     . 

376 

627 

Song  of  the  Gloaming,    . 

251 

481 

Song  of  Failure,  A, 

389 

176 

Song  of  Failure,  A, 

573 

6 

Song  of  the  Road,  A, 

438 

Song  from  a  Drama, 

17 

Song  of  Content,  A, 

46 

Song     of     the     Chatta- 

hoochee,  . 

140 

310 

Song,  The  Vigil,      . 

322 

563 

Sorceress,  The,         .         . 

226 

614 

South      Africa     remem 

183 

bered     at    Niagara, 

Canada,  . 

600 

498 

South  Wind  and  the  Sun, 

295 

421 

Sower,  The,    . 

166 

317 

Springs,  .... 

377 

621 

Spring  Song,   . 

250 

Star,  The  Evening, 

179 

354 

Still  Water,     . 

224 

100 

Stir,         .... 

535 

75 

Straggler,  A,  . 

234 

266 

Story,  The,      . 

511 

615 

Summer,          .         .         . 

402 

284 

Sunrise,  a  Hymn  of  the 

66 

Marshes,           . 

131 

32 

Sunset,  Fantasie,    . 

35 

526 

Sunset  from  the  Train,    . 

171 

168 

Sunshine  of  Thine  Eyes,  . 

288 

113 

Surrender,       ... 

263 

318 

Sydney  Godolphin, 

348 

236 

Symphony,  A  Christmas, 

410 

498 

Syrinx,    .... 

325 

T 

TALE,  Uncle  Ned's, 

Tapestries, 

Tarpeia,  . 

Thanksgiving, 

Theocritus, 

There  is  no  God,     . 

There    is   nothing    New 

under  the  Sun, 
There  was  a  Rose,  . 
Thought,  A  Woman's,     . 
Three  Things, 
Through  the  Meadow,     . 
Time,      .... 
Time,      .... 
Time,  The  Burden  of,      . 
To  an  Oriole,  . 
Tocsin,  The,    . 

To-Day 

ToJ.H., 

To  My  Infant  Son, 

Tornado,  After  the, 

Tornado,  The, 

To     The      Lion     of     St 

Mark's,    . 
Tou jours  Amour,    . 
To    Wilding,    my    Polo 

Pony,       .    '    . 
Transfiguration, 
Trees   and    the    Master, 

A  Ballad  of,    . 
Trio  for  Twelfth  Night, 

A 

Triumph, 

Tristram  of  the  Wood,    . 

True  Love  and  Tried, 

Two  Enchantments,  The, 

Twilight  Song 

Two  Visions,  . 

Tying  Her  Bonnet  Under 

Her  Chin, 

Tyrian's  Memory,  The,   . 
Tryst,  A,          ... 


:x  TO  POEMS. 

663 

FACE 

PAGE 

U 

184 

ULF  in  Ireland, 

260 

281 

Uncle  Ned's  Tale,  . 

184 

404 

Undiscovered      Country, 

61 

The, 

17 

361 

572 

V 

165 

463 

VANITY  of  Vanities, 

428 

163 

Vase,  The, 

238 

521 

Venus  of   Burne   Jones, 

61 

The, 

446 

439 

Vicksburg, 

1 

622 

Vigil,  The,      . 

322 

322 

Virgin,  The  Wayside, 

349 

220 

Voyage  of  Sleep,  The,     . 

559 

321 

394 

50 

W 

281 

9 

WAITING, 

248 

264 

Waiting  in  the  Rain, 

109 

Watch  of  a  Swan,   . 

464 

122 

Way  of  the  World,  The, 

525 

160 

Wayside  Virgin,  The, 

349 

Way  to  Arcady,  The, 

311 

328 

Weaver,  The, 

579 

374 

We    Lay   Us   Down    to 

Sleep, 

442 

142 

Western  Australia,  . 

193 

We  Walked  among  the 

94 

Whispering  Pines,    . 

197 

572 

What  Matters  It,    . 

528 

9 

Whaling  Town,  The 

560 

527 

When  Bessie  Died,  . 

303 

69 

When  Day  was  Done, 

444 

549 

When  the  Baby  Died, 

416 

592 

When  the  Kings  Come,  . 

418 

When  the  Clover  Blooms, 

324 

451 

When    the    Tide  Comes 

326 

In  

415 

495 

When  She  Comes  Home, 

303 

While  Shepherds  Watched 

their  Flocks  by  Night, 

403 

664 


INDEX  TO  POEMS. 


PAGE 

Whip-poor- Will,  The,  .  591 
White  Heron,  Death  of 

the,  ....  199 
Who  Knows,  .  .  .110 

Wife  to  Husband,  .  .  445 

Wild  Ride,  The,  .  .  407 

Will,  ....  513 

Windflower,  A,  .  .  542 
Wind,  Stars  and  Sun, 

The,          .         .  316 


I'AGR 

Winter  Rain,  .  .  .514 
Wish,  The,  .  .  .376 
Witch  in  the  Glass,  The,  465 
With  a  Nantucket  Shell,  32 
Woods  that  Bring  the 

Sunset  Near,    .         .       174 
World,  Liberty  Enlight 
ening  the,         .         .         27 
World  Well  Lost,  The,   .         26 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS'  NAMES. 


ADAMS,  Charles  Follen. 
Adams,  Oscar  Fay. 
Alcott  Louisa  May. 
Aklrich,  Anne  Reeve. 
Alclrich,  Thomas  Bailey. 
Arnold,  George. 

BATES,  Arlo. 
Bates,  Charlotte  Fiske. 
Beers,  Henry  Augustin. 
Bensel,  James  Berry. 
Blake,  Mary  Elizabeth. 
Blood,  Henry  Ames. 
Boner,  J.  H. 
Bowen,  John  Eliot. 
Borjesen,  Hjalmar  Hjorth. 
Bunner,  H.  C. 
Burton,  Richard  Eugene. 
Butterworth,  Hezekiah. 

CAMERON,  George  Frederick. 
Campbell,  William  Wilfrid. 
Carleton,  \Vill. 
Carman,  Bliss. 
Carpenter,  Henry  Bernard. 
Cawein,  Madison  J. 
Chandler,  A.  H. 
Cheney,  John  Nance. 
Cockin,  Hereward  K. 
Cone,  Helen  Gray. 
Coolbrith,  Ina  D. 
Crawford,  Isabella  Valaucy. 

DANBKIDGE,  Danske  Carolina. 


Dawson,  Daniel  L. 
Deland,  Margaret. 
Dickinson,  Charles  M. 
Dewar,  John  Hunter. 

EATON,    Rev.     Arthur    Went- 

worth  Hamilton. 
Egan,  Maurice. 

FAWCETT,  Edgar. 
Field,  Eugene. 
Foster,  William  Prescott. 
Frechette,  Louis. 

GILDER,  Richard  Watson. 

Gray,  David. 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen. 

HANNAY,  James. 

Harvey,  Will  Wallace. 

Harte,  Bret. 

Hay,  Colonel  John. 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton. 

Hensley,  Sophie  M. 

Hildreth,  Charles  Lotin. 

Houghton,  George  W.  Wright. 

Hovey,  Richard. 

Howells,  William  Dean. 

JACKSON,  Helen. 
Johnson  Rossitor. 

KAY,  Charles  De. 
Kenyon.  James  Benjamin. 


666 


INDEX  TO  A  UTHORS1  NAMES. 


Knight,  Matthew  Richey. 

LAMPMAN,  Archibald. 
Lamer,  Sydney. 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons. 
Lathrop,  Rose  Hawthorn. 
Lazarus,  Emma. 
Learned,  Walter. 
Lighthall,  William  Doun 
Lippmann,  Julie  M. 
Lockhart,  Arthur  John. 
Lockhart,  Burton. 
Luder,  Charles  Henry. 

MACT,  Arthur. 
Machar,  Agnes  Maule. 
Mair,  Charles. 
Miller,  Cincinnatus  Hirier. 
Mitchell,  Langdon  Elwyn. 
M'Lennan,  William. 
Morgan,  Mary. 
Morse,  James  Herbert. 
Moulton,  Louise  Chandler. 
Mulvaney,  Charles  Pelham. 

NEILSON,  Adelaide. 
Nesmith,  James  E. 

O'REILLY,  John  Boyle. 

PECK,  Samuel  Minturn. 
Perry,  Nora. 
Piatt,  John  James. 
Piatt,  Sarah  Morgan  Byran. 
Preston,  Margaret  Jenkins. 
Proctor,  Edna  Deans. 


Proudfit,  David  Law. 

READE,  John. 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb. 

Rives,  Amelie. 

Robert,  Charles  George  Douglas, 

Professor. 

Roberts,  Elizabeth  Gostuycke. 
Roche,  James  Jeffrey. 
Russell,  Irwin.     \ 
Ryan,  Father  Abram  Joseph. 

SCOLLAKD,  Clinton. 
Scott,  Rev.  F.  G. 
Sherman,  Frank  Dempster. 
Sir  Edward  Roland. 
Spofford,  Harriett  Prescott. 
Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. 
Stewart,  Philips. 
Staton,  Barry. 

THAXTEB,  Celia. 
Thomas,  Edith  Matilda. 
Thomson,  Maurice. 
Townsend,  Mary  Ashley. 
Tyerll,  Henry, 

WARD,        Elizabeth       Stewart 

Phelps. 

Webb,  Charles  Henry. 
Weeks,  Robert  Kelly. 
Weir,  Arthur. 
Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler. 
Wilson,  Robert  Burns. 
Winter,  William. 


THE  END. 


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